


A Prison of One's Own Making

by LustielsJournal



Series: In this darkness, I might just disappear [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Sam Winchester, Angst, Body Horror, Demon Blood, Demon Sam, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I love Sam so why do I do this to him?, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Sam in captivity, Season 5 AU, Slave Sam Winchester, Torture, Worried Dean, so much hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 119,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28557318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustielsJournal/pseuds/LustielsJournal
Summary: AU for 5.3 Free to Be You and Me and 5.4 The End. Turns out Tim and Reggie meant it when they told Sam they'd be back. They had a demon-killing weapon at their fingertips and weren't going to miss the opportunity to use it! Dean thinks Sam is still sulking when he doesn't return his calls. Will Dean figure out something is wrong before Sam is pushed beyond his breaking point?Cross-posted to fanfic.net.
Series: In this darkness, I might just disappear [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179989
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	1. Capture

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Language, mentions of suicide, violence, temporary death. Very angsty, lots of hurt.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the show to remind you where we are in the story. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Picks up during the beginning of 5.4 The End

“So, you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?” Sam grimaced internally. He hated that expression, especially because now he was the ‘dress’.

“That's what he said.” He struggled to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?”

“So, that's it? That's your response?” Dean’s apparent apathy cut him deeply.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don't know. A—a little panic, maybe?” Sam fought to contain his own.

“I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point.”

“What are we gonna do about it?”

“What do you want to do about it?” Dean sounded like he couldn’t care less.

“I want back in, for starters.”

“Sam—” 

“I mean it. I am sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean.”

“Oh, so, we're back to revenge, then, are we? Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time.”

“Not revenge. Redemption.”

“So, what, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?” His sarcasm was acidic.

“Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you.” His determination withered as silence answered his declaration. 

“Look, Sam, it doesn't matter, whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.”

“Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it.” He was almost begging.

“Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us, love, family, whatever it is, they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways.” 

“Dean, don't do this.” Moisture crept into Sam’s eyes.

“Bye, Sam.” The click punctuated Dean’s dismissal. Sam threw the phone into the passenger seat and pressed his foot down on the gas pedal.

“Dean!” he cried out, tears blurring his vision. “Dean,” he begged to the air, “don’t make me do this alone… I can’t… I can’t do it…” He pounded the steering wheel and fought back a violent sob. He pulled off the highway and allowed himself to weep openly. Tears and snot covered his face. He looked around for tissues, a cloth, anything to clean himself up. Moonlight glinted off the gun nestled in his duffle bag and he placed his hand on it. It was tempting… one press of his finger and it would all be over. 

Then Lucifer’s words came to him: _‘I’ll just bring you back…’_ He withdrew his hand as if burned and scrubbed his face. He focused on breathing and releasing the tightness in his chest.

Coffee. He needed coffee. He wiped his face on his sleeve and pulled back onto the road. He turned the radio on and felt his heart skip a beat when Metallica reached his ears. He quickly changed the station and tried his best not to drown in the grief threatening to overcome him. He cemented his attention to the broadcaster’s bored monologue about the pollination benefits of mosquitoes.

 _“_ Mosquitoes are actually critical for agriculture as we know it,” the expert being interviewed was saying. “Male mosquitos live off of nectar, it’s only the females that are blood-suckers.”

Against his will, Dean’s words blared in his head. _‘Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm_ giving _you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam – a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.’_

A strangled cry ripped from his throat and he slammed his boot to the floor, desperate to be away from all of this, any of this, anything that reminded him of his brother and his failure and the goddam Apocalypse. He was grateful that the next exit was five miles down the highway. He wasn’t sure he could make it much further.

* * *

Killing the engine, he gripped the steering wheel to still his shaking hands. _Stop being such a little bitch_ , he chastised himself. He swung himself out of the too small car and into the minimart, ignoring the pang of nostalgia as he thought of the countless times he and Dean had made such stops as they crisscrossed the country. Regret constricted his airway and he staggered against the coffee machine, suddenly excruciatingly aware of all that he had lost.

He and Dean had split up before, but there was a finality to Dean’s tone and words that told Sam this time was different. Even with Lucifer looming over his shoulder, or maybe because of that, Dean wanted nothing to do with him. In Dean’s mind, them being together would only expedite the Apocalypse. Everything they had worked so hard for, everything Dean had sacrificed, all for nothing because Sam had fucked up. Sam had ignored the myriad warnings given to him by his brother, the angels, even Chuck. He thought he knew better and he had damned the world with his arrogance. Shame paralyzed his body and he fell to his knees.

“Sir?” a concerned voice broke through his grief. Unwilling to face any level of scrutiny, he picked himself up and fled the bright lights of the convenience store. He scrambled for the safety of his stolen car and gunned it.

Letting his body function on autopilot, his attention drifted to his situation. He was on the run again, bolting from the bar to protect Lindsey. He couldn’t bear the death of one more innocent at his hands. The memory of Cindy’s screams and begging rang in his ears and he fought his urge to vomit. He pushed down the cries and the bile, focusing on his task at hand: hiding from Lucifer. Lucifer wanted him as a vessel to end the world. Just when Sam thought his life couldn’t get any worse, the universe landed the worst known evil in his lap. He was Lucifer’s _true_ vessel. Had his entire life been for this? Was everything that had happened to him, his mother’s death, Jess’s death, his father’s death, his death and Dean’s deal, all of it, was it for this?

The nausea returned as he considered his defiled body. And he had added to it, willingly, arrogantly thinking he knew better, thinking that he could control himself and the power the blood gave him. In retrospect, he saw that he had been played and he’d fallen for all of it. Humiliation gripped him and his spirit suffocated under the weight. No wonder Dean wanted nothing to do with him. Dean’s cutting words drifted into his mind: _“Because it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are! It means… It means you’re a monster.”_ His worst fears confirmed by the one he cared about the most. It was something Lilith had wielded against him in his moment of doubt: _“You turned yourself into a freak. A monster. And now you're not gonna bite? I'm sorry, but that is honestly adorable.”_ Her taunting is what had pushed him to finally kill her. His worst fears used to mock him by the one he hated the most.

His reverie was broken by the sound and associated shaking of the car engine sputtering. In the seconds it took him to gather his attention and survey all the gauges, the car came to a complete stop. The check engine light blinked on. He growled in frustration and grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment. He got out and popped the hood, trying to remember anything Dean had taught him. He suppressed all the memories associated with that thought.

He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it was too late. He turned a half second too slow and spun directly into the fist of his assailant. He slumped to the side only to caught by another. The headlight pressed against his face and his eyes ached as the bright light ruined his dark-adjusted vision. He felt his arms wrenched behind his back and the bite of cuffs around his wrists. He was dragged up by his hair and made to stand. He blinked against the dancing spots in his vision but it was no use.

“Sammy,” a familiar voice cooed and he froze, fear curling up his spine. “Shoulda known we weren’t gonna let you off so easy.”

“Tim, please, you don’t have to do this,” Sam pleaded.

A rough hand gripped his jaw. “You’ve got no right to beg. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

Sam grunted and brought his knee up to Tim’s groin, satisfied with the resulting yelp of pain.

“Fine, the hard way it is,” Reggie said. He pushed Sam back and his head clunked against the engine block.

By now, Tim had recovered and was looming over Sam. His eyesight had returned enough to see the bottle in Tim’s hand and the dark liquid inside sloshing around. “I can help you kill the demons, but please, not like this.”

Tim snickered. “No, Sam. I tried it your way, and it got my best friend killed. Now, we’re doing it my way. Open up.”

Sam clenched his jaw shut and turned away, the heat from the engine blistering his cheek. Tim grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward. Sam kept his mouth firmly closed as Tim popped the cork out and wafted the blood under his nose. He smiled as he reached forward and pinched Sam’s nose closed. Sam tried his best to hold his breath, but his body chose survival after thirty-six seconds of burning agony. The moment Sam parted his lips to gasp for air, cool glass entered his mouth. The lukewarm blood poured in, coating his tongue. Using all his core strength, Sam flung himself up. Tim kept the bottle pressed to Sam’s face as Reggie gripped his shoulders and swept his legs out from under him.

Sam struggled against their grasp, his attention torn between freeing himself and not swallowing the blood. He was desperate to resist but another part was ready to give in. Ready to surrender to the profane power pumping through his veins. Maybe he could— no! He had to spit it out! He renewed his attempt to escape but Reggie had his arms pinned and Tim’s hand was firmly clamped over his mouth. Another hand closed around his neck and air became scarce. His body betrayed him as his throat swallowed convulsively, dragging down both saliva and blood in a frantic quest for oxygen. He felt the familiar warm fuzz as the power seeped into him. He wanted to cry, though he wasn’t sure if anguish or relief was the dominant emotion. He stopped fighting and his tall frame sagged.

"You drink all of it, freak?” Tim hissed, turning Sam’s head with a rough grasp. Sam’s eyes danced wildly as panic sparked like a live wire in his brain. “I think he got it all. Now we’re gonna go clean up your mess!” He punched Sam as hard as he could. The young hunter’s body slumped and his head hit the pavement with a dull thud.

They each grabbed an arm and put it over their shoulder, awkwardly moving Sam towards their vehicle. They unceremoniously dumped Sam’s body in the trunk of Tim’s white and faded red 1985 Chevy Blazer Silverado. Well aware of the Winchester reputation, they gagged Sam, took his phone and weapons, and put another pair of cuffs around his ankles. This monster wasn’t going anywhere.


	2. Enslavement

Sam woke to complete darkness. He felt rough cloth against his face. It smelled of dirt and rotting flesh. Sam tried not to think about the possibilities for the previous contents of the bag. He wanted to move to relieve the aggressive aching in his limbs but found he was restrained. The soreness in his jaw made itself known as he choked on the foul-tasting rag in his mouth. He tried to listen to his surroundings but his pulse thrumming in his ears overpowered all other sounds. He could sense he was moving, and by the cramped quarters, he was probably in a trunk. He attempted to recall what happened, what had gotten him in this predicament. The coppery taste of blood brought his memories flooding in and shame flushed his cheeks. Attack. Demon blood. Capture.

He lurched forward as the vehicle came to a stop. He struggled to make out what the hushed voices outside were saying but his galloping heartbeat made it futile. The hinges on the door squealed open. He made a pitiful attempt for freedom but the two men just laughed. Tim yanked him up by the collar. They pushed his body to sitting but kept him in both the hand and ankle cuffs. Sam felt bodies press on either side of him as the car creaked down under their weight.

Sam could feel someone’s breath on his ear. He could also smell the booze over the acrid stench of his makeshift hood. “Okay, Sammy,” the way Sam stiffened at the nickname did not go unnoticed if the brief huff was any indication, “here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re gonna go into this house, find those demonic bastards, and you’re gonna kill every one of them with your freaky powers.” Sam bristled and growled in defiance. “If you don’t, we gut the girl nice and slow, then hand her over to the demons to use as a new meat suit. She’s so pretty. I’m sure she’ll be just what they’re looking for.” Sam’s shoulders drooped. _Fuck, they probably had Lindsey_. He’d have to play along until he got a chance to free them both. He gulped then nodded his head in agreement.

“Aw, Sammy Winchester’s got a soft spot for the girl, huh? Well, damn, this will be easier than I thought!”

“Up and at ‘em, freak,” Reggie baited as Sam was dragged up by the arms. He awkwardly shuffled forward in a vain attempt to keep up with the two hunters but his limited movement hindered their progress. Impatient to use their new toy, they decided dragging Sam would be the most efficient mode of getting him into the house. His knees knocked painfully against the cement stairs and he fought to suppress a whimper when something sharp gouged his shin. They quietly slid his body down and let him rest in a heap on the floor. He could hear several voices inside the house. Someone bent down and unlocked the handcuffs around his wrist.

“Go get the bitch in case he chickens out,” Tim ordered. Sam heard faint footsteps scuffling away, the movement of fabric, and then Tim’s voice uncomfortably close to him. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you? You’re gonna be a good little monster, aren’t you?” Sam didn’t answer. A swift kick to his gut elicited a yelp from Sam. The voices inside stopped. “Good job, you wuss. It’s show time!”

Tim retreated to a safe distance and hid behind a bush in the yard. Sam slowly propped himself up and turned as the door opened. The demon inhaled deeply and grinned. “I smell your fear, you fucking pansies. Come out and fight like real men. Like, uh, what was it, Steve?”

“Don’t you say his name, scum!” Tim shouted, poking out from his cover.

“Can’t hear you, scaredy cat. Why don’t you come a little closer?”

“I don’t need to. You’ll have your hands full soon enough.” Tim nodded and the demon followed his gaze.

The demon looked down and noticed Sam for the first time. “Oh, what do we got here?” The demon grabbed the burlap sack off Sam’s head, taking a few strands of his hair with it. “Well if it isn’t little Sammy Winchester!” the demon said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Thanks for the present!” he yelled in Tim’s direction. Looking down at Sam, black eyes somehow glowing with delight, the demon sounded ecstatic. “Lemme tell ya, we are gonna have some fun! Boss says we can’t kill ya, but doesn’t mean we can’t rough ya up a bit.”

Realizing everything was on the line, Sam shifted his body and kicked the demon in the shins with both his feet. The demon cried out and Sam used the distraction to roll over and heave himself up. With a quick side glance, he caught Tim’s greedy face and Lindsey’s horror, Reggie holding a shiny blade up to her throat. The demon blood was pumping through him hot and fast, begging to be utilized. Over the recovering demon’s shoulder, he saw three more were approaching. Sam knew using his abilities constituted his only chance for survival. Closing his eyes, he swallowed the self-loathing and fear threatening to choke him and dove inside himself, seeking out the demonic power thriving within him.

His psyche slipped down the frantic slopes of his mind, both dreading and relishing what would come next. A river of molten evil snaked its way through his soul, its fiery light eroding the sturdy canyons of his conscience. He had only a split second to contemplate the cruel glow before he was splashing into the malevolent lava in the valley of his being. A bittersweet pain inundated his mind and perversely, he enjoyed the complete abolition of any thought or feeling besides _pain_. Quicker than he liked, the sensation subsided and was replaced with a compression of warmth, like fire-melted marshmallow sealing around him. Settling into the peaceful, energizing feeling, he allowed the burning light to seep into him and fill his body.

Opening his eyes, he raised a hand toward the smirking demon and drew upon the pressure building inside him. A violent wind surged through him and out his fingertips, ensnaring the demon in his hold. He could feel thin rays of energy escaping his body and pinning the demon down, coiling around the dark mass that was once a soul, preventing its escape. The pressure grew within him and took on the substance of powerful waves crashing into his soul. He knew he had to succumb to the raging maelstrom if he was to pull the demon without killing the host, but a part of him always fought for dear life. Perhaps he was fighting for what good remained of his soul. How many times could he drown in the evil pulsing inside him before he failed to surface?

The demon laughed as Sam’s hold withered due to his internal distractions. Shaking his head and refocusing, Sam took a deep breath and plunged (or was he dragged?) beneath the brilliant, writhing surface of his unique corruption. Tension blossomed in his head and he directed the force outwards, urging the power to obey his tenuous control. The swirling smoke began to condense out of the bright blue-white of the host’s soul. Fighting its forced eviction, it rose slowly, eventually flowing out the man’s mouth. The thin line of Sam’s lips smirked ever so slightly as he directed the demon into the fiery pool of light at the human’s feet, silencing its desperate screams for release.

As the last of the demon burned into the ground, he felt the ineffective thrust of demonic telekinesis sweep by him. He stepped over the unconscious body he had just saved and into the house. The three demons retreated but it was too late. Arm outstretched, he anchored them to the floor and began the extraction process. Three at once was pushing it, and he knew it, but he didn’t see another way. Submerging himself further into the shining vortex, the pain returned and he felt blood start to trickle out of his nose as the pressure became too much to bear. He gripped their former souls and dragged them out, enjoying the simultaneous flickering of the embers as they died.

Feeling himself sink even deeper, he shook himself out of his trance. He clawed through the viscous energy enveloping him, towards the surface, towards what was still good in him. Breaking through, he floated on the now-calm river and welcomed the soothing embrace. Then he heard someone calling his name. _Dean?_ he hoped. The voice sounded again and the disdain present told him it was not Dean. _Shit._ He was in danger. He scrambled out of the lava’s comforting grasp and onto the rocky shore. He fought his way up the slope and reaching the top, he opened his eyes to alert awareness. Three bodies lay in front of him, stripped of their demonic invaders. He’d done that. How had he taken out three demons at once? He’d never done that before… Was it even safe for him to—

Sam collapsed to the ground, exhausted from his effort. He heard boots scuffling across the floor towards him. He strained to open his eyes and regretted it once he did. Tim was standing over him, his mouth in a tight smile. He raised his arm and something glinted in the light. In his post-exertion haze, Sam was slow to realize it was a gun. Words slowly trickled in.

“Damn if that demon wasn’t telling the fucking truth!” Tim spat. “I’ll assume everything else is true then. I would have liked to keep ya around as a demon hunting pet, but, can’t have you fucking up the world more than you already have. See you in hell, freak.”

A bright flash of light was all Sam registered before everything went dark.

* * *

Sam gasped awake and immediately felt himself being crushed under something heavy. He moved as much as he could to feel what was on top of him, but the cuffs were still on him. Something wet hit his face and as he struggled for air, a lone drop fell into his mouth. Blood. His shoulders pressed into something soft and he realized he was under a pile of bodies. Focusing his eyes, he recognized a face staring down at him as one of the meatsuits from the demons he had exorcized. _Why kill them?! I saved them!_ Sam thought with anguish. He tried to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs but it was hopeless. He was at the bottom and there was no escaping. He continued his struggle for a few more minutes but the best he could do was make himself slightly more comfortable.

The vehicle came to a stop and the slamming of doors rattled the otherwise complete silence. Two sets of footsteps briskly walked away. He listened for any clues as to where his captors were or what they were doing, but everything was calm. About ten minutes passed when he heard the passenger door open and Tim gleefully say “Time to light ‘em up!” and some things being moved around. Almost instantly he could hear Lindsey sobbing in the backseat and guilt surged over him. It was his fault she was in this situation. Had he picked any other bar, she would be fine. Grimacing with regret, he reminded himself of all the other people who had suffered just because they knew him. He wished, not for the first time in his life and probably not the last, that he’d never been born. He was a curse to all around him.

The trunk squeaked open again and bright morning light reached his eyes through the macabre knot of corpses above him. He could hear the crackle of flames nearby. As each body was lifted off his and added to the pyre, he debated if he found it fitting or ironic that he would die in a fire. But, wait, hadn’t he already died? Concentrating, he remembered the gleam of Tim’s gun and the flash and then nothing. Either Tim was a terrible shot or… Utter terror exploded from every cell as he realized Lucifer hadn’t been lying: if he died, Lucifer would just bring him back. And now he was in the hands of a psycho hunter. The last body on top of him lifted and Sam begged his body to cooperate with his most convincing attempt to play dead. His best hope was to get thrown on the fire, die, and be resurrected once the crazy duo were far away. He prayed to whoever was listening that he could be so lucky.

The crunch of leaves and gravel underfoot grew louder and he prepared himself to hold his breath and become limp. The sound stopped and so did Sam’s lungs. “Gonna take the cuffs off him?” Reggie asked, grabbing Sam’s calf and pulling it up.

“Eh, suppose I should, huh? Not worth wasting a good pair on the freak.” Sam heard Tim rustle in his pocket for the keys. The painful pinch of the cuffs around his ankles soon released and Sam almost forgot to suppress his sigh of relief. Hands then gripped around his already chafed wrists and ankles and heaved him out of the trunk and onto the ground.

Someone bent down and grabbed a wrist, then paused. “Uh, Tim? You said you shot him in the head, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t see a bullet hole…”

“What?! That’s impossible! I basically shot him point blank!” Hands enveloped his face and turned his head side to side. Fingers slid down to his neck in search of a pulse. _Fuck. Can’t hide that_ , Sam lamented. Finding the unexpected, the hand snapped back. “What the fuck? He’s alive!”

“H-how?” Reggie asked, his doubt tempering his fear.

“Why don’t we ask him?” With that, knuckles ground into Sam’s sternum and he couldn’t fight the surprised yelp that escaped his mouth. “Have you been awake this whole time, you fucker?” A forceful slap across his cheek made his eyes water and he looked up into Tim’s angry red face. Tim crouched over him, his knees digging into Sam’s abdomen and preventing him from drawing a deep breath. “How the hell are you alive?”

Sam shook his head weakly. “I—I don’t know,” he lied.

“Bullshit!” Tim spat and pressed his knees down harder. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, you traitorous piece of trash.”

“I’m not!” Sam cried.

Reggie shifted and put his boot on Sam’s throat and drew his gun. Sam closed his eyes and braced himself. But the shot never came. “Willing to stake her life on it?” Reggie challenged. Sam looked and saw the gun trained on Lindsey.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” he gasped, waving his hands in surrender. The foot came off and he coughed harshly, prompting Tim to shift his weight off his knees. “L-Lucifer came to me in a dream and told me that I’m his ve-vessel,” Sam despised himself for stuttering; it revealed how truly afraid he was; “hi-his true vessel. He needs my body but I have to c-consent. I told him I wouldn’t let that happen, I’d k-kill myself. He said he’d just bring me back. I g-guess he wasn’t lying.” Disgust, rage, and hate mixed in a slow turning kaleidoscope on the hunters’ faces before Tim smiled maliciously.

“You know, I was just going to use you for revenge and smoke ya, but I’m thinking you’d be pretty handy to keep around, seeing as it’s the apocalypse and all and you can’t die.” He looked up and smiled at his friend. “I think I’m gonna keep him, Reggie. We can get him a collar and a kennel and a nice chew toy filled with demon blood! Our own person demon-killing pet! You’re ours now; Lucifer can go fuck himself.” Tim was exuberant and it wrenched Sam’s stomach.

Tim thrust the burlap bag back over his head and began kicking Sam mercilessly. Sam curled into a fetal position to protect himself, but it was of little use. Aching pain slithered around his entire body and paralyzed his joints. He couldn’t even put up a fight as they manhandled Sam back into the trunk. They forced him to sit with his knees to his chest and linked new wrist and ankle cuffs together. They slammed the door closed and complete darkness swallowed him. The whole situation was too cruel. Not only had he been manipulated into using his powers to free Lucifer, now he was gonna be someone’s slave because of them. A tear slipped down Sam’s cheek as he wished for Dean, then remembered that Dean thought they were better off apart. He stifled a sob as he felt his resolve begin to crack. He was completely alone, trapped in a prison of his own making.


	3. Confirmation

Dean turned and beheld Castiel with overwhelming relief. “That's pretty nice timing, Cas.”

“We had an appointment,” the angel replied stoically, a hint of humor lightening his voice.

Dean put his hand on Cas’s shoulder and squeezed. “Don't ever change.” Stoner Cas was a laugh but kind of useless.

“How did Zachariah find you?”

“Long story. Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?” _Sam_ , he needed to get to Sam, now. He pulled out his phone and started dialing.

“What are you doing?

“Something I should have done in the first place.” The call went to voicemail and he growled in frustration. “Sam, I need you to call me back like yesterday. We need to talk.” He hung up and shoved the useless device back in his pocket.

Dean looked at Cas and attempted to quell the emotions swirling within him. “Cas, is it — is it true? Is what I saw… Is Sam right? Is he really… Lucifer’s vessel?”

Castiel’s face became solemn and he shied away from Dean’s anxious expression. “From the information I have gathered via angel radio, yes, I believe Sam is Lucifer’s true vessel.”

Dean closed his eyes and let the truth sink in. The confirmation that Sam was Lucifer’s vessel was overpowering. It wasn't unexpected per se, what with Dean being Michael's vessel, but it was painful to have it confirmed. He'd hoped maybe Sam had just taken a nightmare too seriously. Though maybe Zachariah was fucking with him? No, it made too much sense. The boy with the demon blood _would_ be Lucifer’s vessel.

How was this even reality? Him as Michael’s vessel, Sam as Lucifer’s. It seemed too neat and tidy, cliché even. But, he supposed, that’s why it had taken so long and required extensive manipulation by both angels and demons. His interactions with Zachariah were proof enough of that! It was easy to see how Ruby had strung Sam along… A combination of physical addiction, ego stroking, and emotional support through profound grief? How many people _could_ resist that?

He sighed heavily and scrubbed his face. Cas was staring at him inquisitively, sympathy softening his stern features. “I… God, Cas, I said some pretty messed up stuff to Sam earlier… I told him that we’re better off apart, that we’re weaker when we’re together. He just told me some of the worst news ever and I basically told him to piss off. Forever.”

Cas mimicked Dean’s earlier action and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, hoping to comfort him. “Dean, it will be okay. If Sam was hurt by your rejection, he will likely readily welcome your acceptance.”

Dean nodded and swallowed his guilt. “Sammy’s always quick to forgive,” _even if I don’t deserve it._

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Cas offered confidently.

* * *

Cas returned Dean to the motel room and stood guard while Dean packed his meager belongings. The angel left him with a promise to return if Dean encountered Zachariah again and Dean left the motel, eager to put as many miles as he could between himself and that nightmarish future. Bobby had sent him an intriguing case in Ohio so he sped east.

He stopped at a roadside diner for lunch and held off calling Sam again until after he had eaten. “Sam… Dude, call me back. It’s important.”

It irritated Dean that Sam wasn’t responding to his calls. He knew Sam was just sulking. It had happened before. When Sam needed space, he could make Dean feel like they were strangers. When actual distance was involved, Sam could maintain radio silence for days until he felt he’d gotten his head on straight. Problem was, in this case, he didn’t know how Sam could have his head on straight with everything going on. Killing Lilith and Ruby, springing Lucifer from his lockbox, Bobby’s possession, Zachariah’s bullshit, finding out Dean was Michael’s vessel, War, their split, finding out he was Lucifer’s vessel… God, it was enough to make anyone’s head spin! Sam had always been the more emotional of the two… It was sure to affect him far more than it was messing with Dean. He figured he’d give the kid another couple of days before he got too worried.

* * *

The comforting scent of the Impala embraced him before he became aware of his surroundings. Slowly opening his eyes, he was slouched against the familiar leather seat. He remembered being jostled in the car for hours until the reassuring purr of her engine drew him into a deep sleep like it had done so many times before. Relief swept through him as he realized everything he had experienced must have been one hell of a nightmare. He supposed it made sense, the dream covered everything he feared the most: Dean abandoning him, being hunted down like a monster, innocent people suffering because of him, and the consequences of releasing Lucifer. He let out a breath he didn’t notice he had been holding and turned to look at Dean.

His brother smiled at him warmly. “Good to see Sleeping Beauty’s finally back with us,” he gibed affectionately, and Sam relished everything about that moment. Dean’s grin, the tone of his voice, his teasing eyes. Things Sam had been sure he’d never enjoy again. Sam smiled back and felt his heart ease. “You’re welcome, by the way,” Dean offered.

Sam’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “For what?”

Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed. “For what, he asks. For bringing you back.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat and his heartrate accelerated. He felt pain and looked down, seeing his hands digging forcefully into his thighs. “Bringing me back from where?” he asked, almost certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

“From the dead.” It wasn’t Dean’s voice that answered him. Cold blossomed in his gut. It was — Sam glanced up and his suspicion was confirmed. Lucifer smiled at him and Sam’s fight or flight response went into overdrive. He spun in his seat and tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Relax, Sam. I can’t get to you right now. I just thought we should talk about how things are going to go from here on out.”

Sam turned back, his chest heaving. “I’m dreaming again, aren’t I?” Lucifer nodded, not taking his eyes off the imaginary road stretching out endlessly before them. He calmed slightly, reassured that he wasn’t in the archangel’s clutches just yet. “What do you mean, here on out?”

Lucifer sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. After a pause, he looked at Sam earnestly. “This situation that you’re in now, Sam. It’s bad. These hunters are going to figure out you’re indestructible. I can’t afford to let my true vessel be destroyed, so every time they kill you, I will resurrect you. The torment you’ll go through… Unimaginable. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”

Sam snorted, masking his fear. Dean would be proud. Well, the old Dean would have. Dean despised him now. “What, all I have to do is say ‘yes’ and you’ll make it go away?”

Lucifer smirked at Sam’s insolence. “They did say you were smart. But yes, Sam, let me in, and I will obliterate everything that ever dare hurt you. You are my vessel, and I care about your wellbeing. Dean’s, too. You know Dean is putting himself at risk by hunting alone. You know something will happen to him, whether it be Zachariah and Michael, demons, horsemen, or maybe just some bad tacos.” Sam twisted away from the devil’s assessment. “I can protect Dean from all of it if you say ‘yes’. It’s within your power to do one last good thing for your brother. I think you owe him that.”

Sam stared at his reflection in the window, so many emotions warring for control. He knew Lucifer was manipulating him, using the promise of Dean’s safety to get what he wanted from Sam. Just like Dean had predicted. He lived in a cruel universe that used love as its most effective weapon. Dean would want him to say ‘no’ at any price. He had to hang on to that.

“No, I’ll find a way to keep him safe. He’d never forgive me if I said ‘yes’.”

Lucifer shrugged. “What’s one more tally to add to the list?”

“What list?”

“Of things he’ll never forgive you for. Think about it, Sam. You stole his perfect family from him six months after your birth. He sold his soul to bring you back and you didn’t save him from Hell. You were too busy being like your father, obsessed with revenge, though I doubt your father would forgive your interactions with Ruby, either. You chose a demon over your brother, almost killed him, and set me free, all in less than 48 hours! Hell of an accomplishment, if you ask me. Your very existence has turned his life upside down and inside out. How can he ever forgive you for such an egregious crime?”

With every accusation, Sam shrunk into himself further and further. Lucifer was right, he was guilty of all those things, but it didn’t justify unleashing Lucifer’s uncontained power on a defenseless world. He’d hold onto his ‘no’ and never let go. Sam shook his head. “He can’t and he doesn’t have to. But I’m still not going to say ‘yes’. Try whatever you’d like, my answer will always be ‘no.’”

The archangel sighed with disappointment. “That’s alright, Sam. I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind and then we’ll go from there.” He reached over to pat Sam’s arm, and every time their skin touched, violent, spasming pain erupted through his entire body. Lucifer smiled sympathetically before the whole scene blinked out of view.

Sam’s return to consciousness was greeted by the same electrifying agony as Lucifer’s contact. He cried out and was rewarded by a cessation of the pain. He opened his eyes and saw Tim standing over him, a long black rod in his hand, pressed against his skin. “1.7 million volts,” Tim snarled, treating Sam to another taste of what _that_ felt like. His muscles clenched painfully and anguish convulsed his nerves. The wretched sensation stopped and Sam struggled to catch his breath. “I’m gonna take these cuffs off and you’re gonna march your freaky ass into that basement and we’re gonna have a nice little chat. Or you get more of this.” He waved the wand in Sam’s face. “Got it?”

Sam nodded and averted his eyes, unwilling to see that much disgust aimed towards him. Memories of Dean showering him with equal disdain pressed in on him and he wished for death.

But Lucifer had been clear: Sam was to be denied even that mercy.


	4. Interrogation

Tim unlocked the cuffs around his feet and motioned for Sam to move. His sore muscles refused to cooperate and Tim caressed his face with the tip of the prod. “Move faster.” Driven by fear, he forced his stiff body to unfold and made it to his feet, sheer willpower keeping him upright. “Inside.” His captor directed him forward, the prod kept at the base of his neck. Surveying his surroundings, Sam saw they were at a farmhouse with no other residences in sight. An aged realtor’s sign hanging in the front lawn told him the chance of rescue by accidental discovery was slim. The storm cellar could be locked from the outside which would certainly hinder his escape. Trudging down into the gaping darkness, everything in him sagged as he saw Lindsey sitting nervously on a crate, her hands cuffed in front of her. Reggie was beside her, leaning against the damp wall. She looked up at their entrance, the fear on her tear-stained face evident and alive. Sam made a step to go towards her but Tim pushed the power button on the prod just for a second and Sam unwillingly halted.

“Uh-uh, this way.” Reggie pointed to a large swivel eye hook hanging from the ceiling. Sam’s stomach knotted as he made his way there, knowing freedom was slipping away from him. “C’mon, Sam, don’t make this difficult. You know what you have to do.” A stool was positioned under the hook. Sam’s mind raced as he searched for a way out, but the click of a cocked hammer stilled him. Tim had a gun to Lindsey’s forehead.

Sam gulped and stepped up, lifting his arms over his head. Pulling up another crate, Reggie opened the swivel of the hook and slipped the chain of Sam’s cuffs into the eyelet. The swivel snapped shut and Reggie got down.

Tim circled Sam slowly a few times, well aware he was increasing Sam’s anxiety. With a quiet scuffle, he kicked the stool out from under Sam and the young hunter’s body plunged down two feet. A thin crunch filled the silence and Sam cried out as his wrists snapped and his shoulders popped out of their sockets. Burning pain ripped down his arms as crushed sensitive tissue wailed its neurochemical distress. “Please,” he gasped, unable to say anything more.

A stinging slap to the face answered his plea. “You’re not worthy of any mercy. You started the damn Apocalypse. Now. Start from the beginning: how long have you been working for Lucifer?”

Sam shook his head, as much an answer as to give himself time to think through the pain. “I—God, I haven’t been working for Lucifer!”

“Bullshit!” Tim exclaimed angrily, backhanding the other side of Sam’s face.

“It’s not, I swear!”

“Then how do you explain all of this?” The sweeping gesture of his arm implied Sam was responsible for all the evil in the world.

“I, I’ll tell you, just, please, let me down! I can’t, I can’t—”

“Oh, do you want a nice cup of hot cocoa and some cookies?” Tim elbowed Sam in the groin. “Payback. Guess it sucks to be you. Start. Talking.”

“What good will it do you? It’s all in the past,” Sam stated flatly.

“I don’t want a justification, freak. I want you to do as you’re told! Remember, you’re my slave now. Whatever I want, I get. And I want to know how you started the fucking end of the world!” His voice rose to a scream at the end. “Or did you already forget our little arrangement?” Tim drew a knife from his belt and approached Lindsey, tracing the tip of the blade up her arm and onto her collarbone. “You do _anything_ I don’t like,” he lifted the knife up behind her, “and she dies!” He swung the knife down and Sam shouted and Lindsey tried to curl into herself. Tim laughed as he held up a handful of the hair he had sliced from her head. He let it rain down over the frightened woman.

Bolstered by adrenaline, Sam mustered his strength and did his best to suppress the pain. He didn’t want to review his fall from humanity in detail, so he hoped he could get away with the bare minimum. “I—I was cursed as a baby,” he explained, gasping for air every few syllables. “A powerful demon infected me with its blood. Somehow that gave me visions that started a few years ago. Turns out this demon was trying to make…” he paused, hating how bad this sounded.

“Keep going,” Reggie commanded.

“He was trying to make ‘special children’ to lead his army of demons. One of those children killed me. Dean made a demon deal to save me, his soul for my life. An angel eventually rescued him from Hell, but while he was gone, I, I…” Shame strangled his voice and he stared down at his heaving chest, for once welcoming the pain searing through his mind. “In my grief and desire for revenge, I was manipulated by a demon who claimed to be helping us. She got me…” He glanced towards Lindsey who was staring at him with a mix of disbelief, fear, and sympathy. “Addicted to demon blood, made me think by using it, that I could help people, turn Azazel’s curse into something good. When we found out the seals were being broken by Lilith, I—”

“Hold up, seals?”

“They’re, uh, like the locks on Lucifer’s cage. 66 had to be broken out of the hundreds possible.”

“Why now all of a sudden?” Reggie asked.

“Because the first and last seals were very specific and had to occur in order.”

“So which seals did you break?” Tim queried, his eyes alight with malicious curiosity.

“I only broke the—” Sam stopped abruptly. If he shared that Dean broke the first one, maybe these psychos would go after him, too. He couldn’t let that happen. “I only broke the first and the last ones.”

Tim’s fists clenched. “And, pray tell, how did you manage that treasonous feat?”

_Fuck. Time to sell it._ “I didn’t know it at the time, I swear, but the first time I exorcised a demon when I was powered up by blood. That was the first seal. The last seal was killing Lilith. I thought killing Lilith would stop the seals breaking, but she _was_ the last seal. I didn’t know. They tricked me. Don’t you see I was trying to stop all of this?! Dean and I actually saved a number of seals, but the angels were working against us! They want the Apocalypse!”

Tim shrugged. “They can want it all they want but it was you and your mistakes that landed us here! What, are you so pathetic you can’t make it without your brother? Dean’s gone and you dive headfirst into evil?” He eyed Sam hatefully. “Dean made it without you for years while you were at Stanford, being all high and mighty. What, the huntin’ life not good enough for you, hot shot? Think saving peoples’ lives isn’t worth your precious time?” He spat on Sam, his anger starting to boil over. “Or did you already know what a freak you were even back then? I bet you’ve always known it. Fucking disgusting mutant. Shit, Dean must be _so ashamed_ of you.” Sam closed his eyes and tried to stop the tears threatening to leak in. “He’s a far better hunter than you’ll ever be. I mean, you just slowed him down while you were a kid.”

“Almost got him killed a few times, too, if I remember,” Reggie added.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Still, he and John did their best and then you run off like the ungrateful piece of shit I knew you’d turn out to be. John shoulda gotten rid of you when he had the chance!”

Dean’s voice blared in his mind. _‘_ _He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy.’ ‘Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm_ giving _you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you.’_

Out of nowhere, the rigid force of a splintered wooden plank slammed into Sam’s stomach and he cried out, bringing a smile to Tim’s face. Long slivers of wood pierced his skin and implanted themselves in Sam’s abdomen. “You are fucking scum!” Tim shouted, swinging the plank again, driving the fragments in even deeper. Sam gasped in agony, his body unable to bring in enough air. “You are worse than anything I’ve ever hunted! You were supposed to be on our side, you goddam traitor! You’ve doomed us all!”

Discarding the wood for a crowbar, he began to wail on Sam’s writhing body mercilessly, all the while screaming. “My best friend is dead because of you! I should be burning your body instead of his, but no! You. Won’t. Fucking. Die!” A solid blow landed on the iliac crest of Sam’s left hip and he only had a moment to appreciate the reality-altering pain that was a shattered hip before he passed out.

* * *

Misery crept around the edges of his consciousness, preventing his return to oblivion. Awareness dropped him ten thousand feet onto a plain of serrated knives and everything _hurt_. The only thing he could move was his neck. He struggled to lift his head and was rewarded with Lindsey’s horrified gaze. Her eyes were red. She’d definitely been crying.

Guilt surmounted his aching body and he forced himself to speak. “Lindsey, I’m so, so sorry. If I had known any of this would have happened, I never woulda stepped foot in the bar. I know I can never make it up to you, just know that it’s killing me what they’re doing to you.”

Her eyes got wide and she let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “What they’re doing to me?” She rattled her cuffs. “This is the worst they’re doing to me. Sam, what they’re doing to you… I…” She shook her head, words unable to express her frantic emotions.

Sam looked away. “I… I deserve it…” he said quietly.

“I don’t know that I believe whatever the hell you guys were talking about, but, Apocalypse or not, no one deserves to be hung by their wrists and beaten. On top of that, it sounds like you thought you were doing the right thing.”

“Guess it’s true that the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Sam scoffed.

Lindsey sighed and an unsteady silence hung between them for a few minutes. Sam tried to concentrate on an escape plan but the torment plaguing his body robbed him of all focus.

“How long had you known about your… powers?” Lindsey asked quietly.

Sam looked up and into Lindsey’s eyes, but found her expression unreadable.

“A few years ago… I was at Stanford, studying to become a lawyer,” he began.

“That explains a lot,” she commented seriously.

He huffed out a weak laugh. “I liked it but clearly it wasn’t meant to be. I had a nightmare that my girlfriend died, but I thought it was just a nightmare. See, when Azazel — the demon who cursed me – came into my room as a baby, my mom tried to stop him. He killed her by cutting her stomach open, pinning her to the ceiling, then setting the house on fire.” Lindsey’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I know, it’s horrible, but I obviously don’t remember it. Anyway, that’s how I dreamed Jess died, so I thought it was my brain just messing with me.” He paused, tears successfully breaking free now. “But it wasn’t,” he said in a strangled whisper. “It was my first vision. I went away with Dean for a weekend and when I came back, her blood dripped onto my — she… she was on the ceiling…” he gasped, sobs convulsing his body, enhancing his suffering even more.

“I’m sorry. That sounds so awful. No one should have to go through that,” she murmured comfortingly.

Sam sniffled and tried to compose himself. “I should have – I should have known to never go near people again. Everyone I get close to dies. I’m sorry, Lindsey. I’ll get you out of here, I promise.” He looked over at her, earnestly conveying his last wish.

She smiled sweetly and stood up. “It’s okay, Sam, I believe you.” She pushed the crate over to him with her feet and clambered up. On the crate, she was eye level with him. “Though really, you should be much more concerned about getting yourself out,” she whispered in his ear.

His brows furrowed. “What? What do you—” He turned to look at her, and as she smiled, the grey of her eyes rolled back to reveal hazy white.

Fear petrified Sam. “You-you’re dead. I killed you! How are you here?!”

The woman in front of him flopped her blonde hair over her shoulder and grinned. “Like Lucifer would make me miss out on all the fun!” A pair of pliers booped his nose. “Open up, tough guy, I want to hear lots of screaming!” Grasping his tongue with the cool metal, Lilith wasted no time in getting her revenge.

* * *

Another irritating zap of electricity dragged him back to wakefulness. Simmering beneath the acute pain of his injuries, a frantic pressure was needling along his nerves. He knew exactly what that was. _Withdrawal. Fuck!_ He couldn’t do this again! He couldn’t do any of this. He wanted to die. Except he couldn’t. _Fuck you, Lucifer!_ he shouted internally. A more powerful shock tempered his anger and made him focus his attention externally.

“Open your eyes, bitch! Show me you’re awake!” a harsh voice snarled.

After a few moments of blinking against bright light, Tim’s blurry figure resolved in Sam’s vision. The gleeful look on Tim’s face warned Sam of some impending misfortune. Tim sidled up to the right side of Sam’s body and wrapped his arm around, forcefully patting Sam’s obliterated hip. The whimpers only made him grin wider.

“Alright, Sammy. It’s time to see just how much damage Lucifer can repair. Hope you don’t mind being used as monster bait!”


	5. Breaking

“Bait for what?” Sam asked, fear washing through him.

Tim shrugged. “Not sure yet. But something’s eatin’ people up in Nebraska so I thought we’d go check it out. Use you as living bait, track down the creature. Easy! Well, for us at least.”

Sam shook his head as much as his tortured muscles would allow. “Don’t do this, please.”

Tim sighed disapprovingly. “Come on, we’ve been over this. Begging will get you nowhere. But, I’ll be generous with you here. I acknowledge that all pets need to be trained. I mean, you’re practically feral. So we’ll start from the beginning. If you’re bad, you get hurt. If you’re good, you get a treat.” He raised his hands and wiggled a granola bar in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

Sam just stared at him, aghast at the proposal. His stomach rumbled at the sight of food though, and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. He’d grabbed a quick bite before he left Garber, which was probably only twelve hours ago, give or take a few depending on how long he was asleep or unconscious. He puffed up his aching chest in defiance and spat out a venomous “Fuck you!”

Tim stepped forward and slapped him. He shook his head as he motioned to Reggie. “I wasn’t gonna do this if you behaved, but if you’re going to be like that, you leave me with no choice.” He pulled something out of the bag Reggie supplied and smiled as he held it up to Sam’s face. It took Sam a few seconds to recognize the band of textured fabric and the black box attached to it: a shock collar. Tim settled the collar around Sam’s neck and moved back, satisfied with the fearful expression on Sam’s bruised face. “Wanna talk back again, dog?” Sam stayed silent and Tim smirked in triumph.

Reggie stepped forward, holding a scalpel and a small metallic square in his hand.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Sam asked quietly.

Tim’s finger spasmed over the button on the shock collar controller but he relented. “You will only speak when it is required of you, dog. But since you asked so nicely... Reggie, wanna fill him in?”

The other hunter walked behind Sam and began cutting off his shirt with a razor. “This is a tracking device. I am going to implant it in your shoulder. Necessary for both our next hunt and to make sure you don’t stray too far.”

“Please don’t do this to him,” Lindsey plead, speaking up for the first time. “He’s done what you asked, don’t do this!”

Tim’s lip twitched with irritation. He stormed over to her. “Did I fucking ask you?!” He slapped her hard, his hand leaving a brightening red spot on her cheek. “Not another word from you either!” He turned back to Reggie. “Do it so we can get going.”

Reggie nodded and sprayed Sam’s shoulder with rubbing alcohol. Without warning, he pushed the scalpel into Sam’s shoulder, in a place he knew would be just out of reach. Sam screamed as the sharp blade sliced through skin and connective tissue, but he was relieved when he sensed his muscle was intact. He felt Reggie push the 2”x2” object under his skin, the sharp edges tearing at him. A few quick stitches and Sam had been chipped, as if he were any other disobedient animal prone to running away.

After Reggie placed a gauze bandage, the two hunters began packing up the basement. Both men left for the vehicle and Lindsey pounced on the opportunity to check on Sam.

“Sam, how are you doing?” She frowned when he didn’t respond. “Sam?” she asked louder.

“Hmmph?” he responded weakly, his head still hanging down on his chest.

“Sam, talk to me. How are you doing?”

He winced at her tone, his exhausted mind unable to reconcile her concerned voice with Lilith’s previous depravity. “I’m hanging in there,” he said bitterly, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from creeping onto his face.

“Very funny. But, really? What happened earlier? You scared the hell out of me. I tried to get you off the stupid hook and you just started freaking out. I thought you were going to hyperventilate… You started screaming when I touched you…”

Sam gulped, suddenly becoming consciously aware of the unnerving burning tremor slinking around his body. “The blood… I… It gives me withdrawal, and uh, because the addiction is kind of supernatural, the withdrawal is kind of supernatural… Very powerful hallucinations are a particular problem. I thought you were the demon that killed my brother…”

Lindsey sighed sadly. “I’m so sorry, Sam. Withdrawal is a bitch, no matter what the drug is. How are you feeling now?”

“Everything hurts, but that doesn’t matter. We need to figure out how to get you free.”

“Both of us free,” she corrected.

Sam shook his head. “That’s not going to happen and we both know it. But I think I can get you out. I’ll make their life as difficult as possible until they let you go.”

“No! They’ll just hurt you more. I can’t live with that.”

“I can’t live with you being stuck here. Please, Lindsey, let me do this for you.” She shook her head but he kept going. “It’ll make this so much easier for me if I know you’re safe. Just give me this, please. Let me help _someone_ ,” he begged.

The glistening of his eyes was met with her tearful ones. She nodded and choked out an “okay.”

“Good, good,” he murmured with relief. “I’ll try to help whenever I can, but you may have to make a break for it. And if you do get out, don’t you dare come back for me. Don’t even tell anyone about me. I’m not worth the risk to you. If you go back to Garber, always keep an eye peeled.”

A slow clap startled both captives and they turned to the storm door to see the two hunters. Tim looked like he was doing his best to suppress a giggle, Reggie just looked annoyed. “My, Sam, you really do care about her, don’t you?” Sam looked to the floor, cursing himself for not noticing their presence. “How about this: let’s make a deal. If you comply whole heartedly from here to Nebraska and do your part as monster bait, we’ll give her _the chance_ to escape.”

Lindsey inhaled sharply and started to say “no” but Sam gave her a scathing look before returning his eyes to Tim. “Deal.”

Tim grinned maliciously. “Great. Alright then, let’s get you packed up.”

Reggie stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist. Sam’s hips pressed into the hunter’s shoulders as he lifted Sam’s weight, eliciting a cry of pain from the young man. Tim stepped onto the crate and unhooked Sam’s cuffs and let Sam’s body drape over Reggie. Tim beckoned for Lindsey to follow them out.

Lances of agony speared through Sam as Reggie’s wide gait moved him from one prison to another. The bright glare of midday sun made Sam’s eyes burn and he shut them tight. As such, he didn’t see that the open trunk of the Silverado had been rearranged to make room for a large crate. Sam was deposited on the bumper with no care taken for his shattered hip.

“In you go,” Reggie muttered, pushing Sam towards something. He opened his eyes and froze when he saw the cage. Reggie lifted his cuffed arms and directed them into the wire crate.

“No!” Sam murmured, pushing back like an unruly cat refusing to go into its carrying case for a visit to the vet.

Before he was even aware of what was happening, his body seized as electricity coursed through him. The shock probably only lasted a few seconds but it felt like eternity as he waited for the agonizing tension constricting his body to ease. He collapsed in towards the crate, half his body inside.

“C’mon, freak, we wanna get to Scotia in time for happy hour.” Tim held up the remote again. “Or do you want Lindsey to get a taste of this?” Sam weakly shook his head and climbed into the crate. Reggie closed the door and secured it with a padlock. “Get comfy. It’s gonna be about seven hours.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Sam asked timidly.

Tim smirked and looked down. “That’s what the tarp is for.” He didn’t even wait for Sam’s horrified reaction before closing the trunk door and plunging Sam into darkness.

Panic infiltrated him like dense smoke and he struggled to breathe. He awkwardly felt around the crate the best he could, though his movement was still hindered by the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The space was big enough for him to lay on his side if he scrunched his knees up to his chest. Settling on that position, he laid on his right hip facing the trunk door. The car started up and every bump jarred his shoulders and hips. He made the mistake of crying out after a particularly large pothole and was rewarded with a shock. Knowing the hunters couldn’t have heard him, he spoke at a normal volume and again the wretched device showered him with pain. The bastards had set it to respond to any noise he made, effectively rendering him mute. He suppressed a sob and let his tears fall silently as he cursed his existence.

* * *

It didn’t take long for the incessant pain, mind-numbing darkness, and withdrawal to conspire and birth hallucinations with which to antagonize him further. It started as the sensation of something, and then somethings, crawling over his body, their tiny needle-sharp feet poking a thousand itty bitty holes in his shivering skin. The miniscule creatures coalesced into something slimy and tentacled, its curious limbs taking special interest in exploring the features and holes of his face. The slippery form morphed to hands holding his shoulders down, whispering voices telling him he was weak and useless. One voice slowly became louder, its familiar, dominating boom rising about the others as the hands slid around his throat.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance, boy. I should have let you burn in that goddam house. I should have known you were tainted, but I loved Mary too much to let her precious baby die. If only I knew what you would become! You insult the memory of your beautiful mother! When I found out that fetid blood was coursing through your veins, I should have put you down like the diseased beast that you are before your infection could spread to Dean. But I was stupid, I let you live, and we all paid the price for your corruption! I hate you, Sam. You were never a son to me, you were never what Dean has always been. My only wish is that when Dean joins us in Heaven and you’re burning in Hell where you belong, the angels will have the generosity to wipe you from our minds. You’ve been nothing but a burden, a scourge, a wicked stain on this family. Think of how much better everything would be if you had never been born…”

The hateful monologue continued and the grasp around his throat tightened until Sam could no longer breathe, and his choked, silent sobs wracked his abused body until it could take no more. Unconsciousness swept over him and for once he didn’t fear the nightmares he knew awaited him, for they were more forgiving than his cursed reality.


	6. Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Implied sexual assault, nothing graphic, no descriptions (it’ll be okay, I swear!).

When he woke of his own volition, he was no longer moving. Acute and diffuse pain made itself known over his entire body. Opening his eyes, he was still shrouded in darkness. His limited tactile exploration told him the tarp was still under him and a blanket covered the crate. Faint sounds filtered in and he concentrated on making sense of them. He heard the rustle of fabric and the sound of a beer bottle opening. Lindsey’s fearful voice evaporated his haze instantly.

“Don’t do this, please, please, anything but this.”

“You should be thankful, bitch. We saved you from that monster.” Tim’s voice was razor-sharp and threatening.

“He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me! You don’t have to, either! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“Whatever we want, huh? Well, _this is_ what we want. I said take _all of it_ off.”

Blood drained from Sam’s face as he realized what was happening. “Leave h—” was all he got out before the collar kicked in, making him shudder against the wire cage.

“Looks like the beast is finally awake!” Footsteps padded across the carpet and the blanket was yanked off, momentarily blinding Sam. Blinking away the light, he focused his eyes and felt his body freeze as he saw what was happening. Tim was standing over Sam’s cage, beer in hand. On one of the beds, Reggie was laid out on his side, his hand propping up his head. Reggie’s eyes were fixed on Lindsey, who was sitting on the opposite bed in her bra and jeans, her shirt thrown to the side. Tim crouched down to be eye level with Sam. His pupils were dilated and his breath reeked of alcohol. “What’s the matter, Sammy, don’t wanna share your girlfriend?”

Anger surged through Sam and he inhaled to give Tim a verbal lashing. Before he could even get a sound out, Tim pulled the remote from his pocket and smashed down the button, engulfing Sam in a seizure of misery. Tim laughed and kicked Sam’s cage as the trapped hunter greedily sucked in air, trying to soothe his screaming nerves.

“Look at you, you’re pathetic. How do you think you’re gonna protect her when you can’t even defend yourself? Fucking worthless.” With that, Tim threw the blanket back over the crate. Tim stepped toward the bed and Lindsey whimpered. “C’mon pretty girl, we’ll be nice if you don’t make a fuss. I bet you’ll even enjoy it…”

The sound of a zipper opening was all Sam needed to plunge himself into the deepest pit of self-hate he knew. The bed began to creak rhythmically and each one of Lindsey’s muffled screams was a blade to his heart. He wept violently, tears streaming down his face. He tried to beg for them to stop, ignoring the writhing pain of the electricity running rampant through his body. He didn’t even care when the repeated shocks caused him to lose control of his bodily functions. Profound desolation swallowed him and he wanted nothing more than to be one with oblivion. Eventually the screams and whimpers stopped and Lindsey’s soft sobs joined Sam’s. Lindsey’s quieted down quickly, exhaustion probably taking her away from her living nightmare. But guilt and electricity denied Sam the release and his tears continued unabated, mixing with the now room temperature urine pooling by his cheek.

Tim sighed angrily and rattled the cage. “Shut the fuck up, freak. You trip the end of the world and one girl is what’s got you sniveling? Ughhhh… Reggie, you got anything to knock him out? I’d like to actually fucking sleep…”

“Sure do, boss,” came Reggie’s sighing reply.

“In fact, give him a lot. Don’t want him causing any problems tomorrow while we’re out.” The other bed squeaked and Reggie rustled through their things. A few minutes later, the blanket was pulled off and something sharp jabbed Sam in the neck before his eyes could recover. Warmth bumbled through his veins and he registered, too late, that he’d been drugged. He struggled against the rising tide but was helpless to stop the surge from hitting his brain and he drifted away into darkness.

* * *

Freezing cold roused him from his drug-assisted slumber and he screamed at the sudden insult. He tried to flee the icy water raining down on his completely exposed body but his still-cuffed hands and feet gave him no traction. He ducked his head to shield his face and opened his eyes. Looking up, Reggie stood guard, watching the young man with uninterested disdain.

“Can’t have you covered in your own mess. Wouldn’t make very attractive bait, now would it? Wash up so we can get going.”

Sam looked down and used the wall to leverage himself up. He saw Lindsey’s blonde hair coiled around the drain and grief tore through him again. Leaning against the wall and suppressing a sob, he calmed himself by breathing through his nose. He did as Reggie commanded, swallowed his embarrassment, and stepped out of the shower. The hunter threw some threadbare sweatpants and a thin t-shirt at Sam. “I’m gonna unlock these so you can get dressed, but if you even _think_ about doing anything, Lindsey—”

“I won’t,” Sam half-promised, half-plead.

“Good.” Reggie unlocked the cuffs, Sam quickly shimmied the clothes on, and allowed his restraints to be secured again. The shock collar was returned to its rightful place and Sam wilted under its light weight.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Sam saw the room was immaculate. No sign that any of the cruelty of the night before had occurred there. Reggie ushered him out the door and into the backseat of the Silverado. The sky was faint blue with tints of pink but Sam couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk. How long had he been knocked out? He’d figure that out shortly, he supposed. As soon as his seatbelt was clipped in and the door closed, he turned his head to Lindsey and mouthed ‘I’m sorry,’ tears filling his eyes.

She smiled softly and shook her head. Sam’s forehead creased in confusion.

‘Later’ she mouthed and Sam had to accept that as good enough because Tim turned to look at them as Reggie pulled out of the motel. 

“While you were having a nice snooze, we were out doing all the work. We’re still not quite sure what we’re dealing with, but that’s why you’re going to be so useful. We’re leaning towards wendigo or something similar. People out hunting deer and the like went missing, only to be found with their chests ripped open and a bunch of internal organs missing, but we can’t tell if the missing guts are from scavenging animals. There are mountain lions round these parts. Most of the bodies were found east of the Davis Creek State Wildlife Management Area so I’m guessing the thing lives in the chalk mines not too far away from there. Here’s the plan. We’re gonna leave you and Lindsey out there as a lure. It’s up to you to get her out, Sam. If she makes it, we won’t go after her. If not, problem solved.” He shrugged but Sam thrashed in the seat to signal his rejection. “Fine, we’ll give her a fighting chance by handicapping you.” He held up his gun and Sam gulped but nodded his head.

“Sam—” His stern look quieted her and they both looked back to Tim.

“Monster nabs you, we track it via your implant, figure out what it is, then kill it. Simple.”

“When is this going to happen?” Lindsey asked.

“In about three minutes.” Tim smiled and turned back around.

Lindsey looked at Sam in terror and he tried to comfort her but he knew it was futile. The silence nibbled away at their psyches until Reggie pulled off the road. A sign for ‘Happy Jack Chalk Mine Association’ went by and dread infiltrated Sam. This was not going to be pretty for him. But at least he could maybe save Lindsey. That would be worth anything he suffered.

The faded Chevy turned onto a dirt road and dove deeper into the growing darkness. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop at Tim’s hushed “here.” Reggie pulled the key from the ignition and got out, going over to Lindsey’s side. Tim came to Sam’s side and opened the door with a wide grin. “Ready? It’s dinner time. Gimmie your feet.” He obediently swung his legs out. As Tim removed his ankle cuffs, Sam once again breathed through his nose to steady himself.

Tim pulled Sam up and they joined Lindsey and Reggie in their march towards a dense copse of trees. After a few minutes of trekking through the forest, they came to a clearing with a large wooden post in the middle. Tim motioned with his Glock for Sam and Lindsey to go to the center. Reggie switched her cuffs from front to back and made her slide her arms over the post and sit on the ground. Sam was forced to stand on the other side with thick rope looping his cuffed hands through a hole in the post. Reggie spent enough time tying knots that Sam was certain he couldn’t escape. Reggie unclipped the shock collar and then spit in Sam’s face.

Tim surveyed his accomplice’s work and nodded in approval. “Alight, Sammy, ready to be useful?” Sam flicked an uncertain glance up at his captor before returning his gaze to the ground. “Good doggy.” Sam heard the safety click off and he braced himself not a second too soon. The bang of the gun hit at the same time all-consuming pain exploded from his right knee. Sam howled in reaction and Tim couldn’t help but laugh. “See ya on the flip side!” he said cheerily before sauntering off with Reggie.

Tears filled Lindsey’s eyes as she felt and heard Sam twisting with agony. He was slumped against the pole but the way he was tied offered little relief. She couldn’t free herself from her position until Sam was untied from the post. Her standing would only force him to put more weight on his battered legs. Left with no other options, she looked up at his trembling back and called out his name and murmured soothing words. Eventually he calmed and responded.

“Lindsey, I can’t believe what happened to you. I would do anything to stop that from—”

“Sam,” she cut him off quickly. “They didn’t do anything. Well, yeah, they made me take off my shirt, but it was all to mess with you. They told me if I didn’t scream and pretend like they were… hurting me, they’d cut your fingers off one by one! So I played along and did what they wanted. They barely even touched me, I promise.”

Sam heaved an overwhelmed sigh of gratitude. “Thank God. I just couldn’t bear… I couldn’t…”

“I know, I know. It’s okay. Now focus. How are we gonna get out of this?” Sam pulled on his bindings but they didn’t budge. “From what I can see, the knots are really complicated and pretty tight. I’m not sure how to help.”

Looking around them, he wracked his brain for an escape plan. The sun was setting and there were no artificial light sources to provide additional illumination. He hoped the moon would be bright enough to guide their way should they manage to get off the damn post. _Their way._ Who was he kidding? One hip was shattered and his knee on the other leg was pretty much obliterated. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. But Lindsey didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll try to get the knots loose. See if you can find anything on the ground to pick the lock on the cuffs. If I get the rope undone, you can get off the post. If you get the cuffs off, you can untie me. Otherwise, we might have to wait til the thing gets here and hope it can do something useful.”

“You mean take you so I can escape,” Lindsey growled angrily.

Sam smiled to himself. “If you wanna simplify it, yes.”

She huffed in frustration. “Fine. Guess I’ll just have to save you then.” She began feeling around the base of the post for anything sturdy enough to attempt the lock. Sam focused on feeling the curves of the rope, though the handcuffs restricted his flexibility. He knew in his gut there was no getting out of this, but he continued fighting for Lindsey.

* * *

The sun had long since sunk below the horizon and the cloudless sky darkened to reveal thousands of twinkling stars. Pausing in his mostly fruitless efforts, Sam let his head fall back and he took in the sight, thinking back to all the times he and Dean — agh, Dean! Goddam, he missed his brother. He’d been wishing for Dean to come bursting through the door at some point and save him, but he had to constantly remind himself that Dean thought they were better off apart. Hell, even if Dean did know, maybe he was hoping that someone else would take Sam out and he wouldn’t have to worry about fulfilling their father’s last order.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sam flinched despite the fact that she was whispering.

“It is. We forget about it all the time, that we’re just one little world spinning around an average star in an average galaxy…”

“Man, you can really be a downer!” she teased half-heartedly. “Sam—”

“Lindsey. Look, it’s okay. I’ll figure something out. But you need to keep yourself safe. If you get out of here, head to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Find someone named Bobby Singer. He owns a salvage yard. He’s a hunter and he’ll teach you what you need to know to protect yourself. If he asks why, just tell him I sent you, okay?”

“We’re getting out of here together,” she said firmly.

“Say you’ll do it, please.”

“I’ll do it,” she conceded.

“That’s all I needed to he—”

Sam’s response was cut off by a shrill, high-pitched wail that made them both freeze. It was long and keening, like the cry of a dying animal mixed with a fox in heat overlaid with the desperate screams of Hell bound souls.

“S-Sam?” she breathed. “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back, trying his hardest to see anything in the darkness between the trees. The cry faded away before sounding again much closer, this time causing goosebumps to spring up on the humans’ skin. The piercing sound clawed into their brains and they both felt as though their eardrums had burst. The screech got louder and louder, pressing in on them, driving them to the point of insanity until it unexpectedly stopped and they both breathed a sigh of relief.

Which was instantly followed by a shocked yelp from Sam as something punctured his ribcage.

“Sam?!” Lindsey cried out, terrified by the dreadful noise and his startled exclamation.

“Something just stabbed me,” he panted and looked down, “but I don’t see anything.” Blood was blossoming on the cheap t-shirt, a black stain in the faint starlight. Awkwardly wiggling, he felt a sharp object lodged between two ribs. Looking up, he strained his eyes but the darkness was too complete.

Distracted as he was with his newest injury, Lindsey heard it first. “Do you hear that?”

Sam closed his eyes and concentrated. Filtering out the normal sounds of the forest, he scanned every minute detail for something out of place. The noise was barely audible; it was like the sound of two cheap tissues sliding against each other. And honestly, he may have dismissed it as wind in the leaves if not for the unusual sound accompanying it. The intermittent crackling was familiar, as if someone were popping their knuckles. Closing in on the direction of the eerie snaps, Sam caught faint light and movement in his peripheral vision. Turning and squinting, he quickly recoiled as he saw a pair of burning red orbs getting ever larger as the entity approached.

“Sam?” Lindsey begged but Sam shushed her.

Sam felt something slither around his mind and he heard a hissing, angry voice whisper ‘ _Hunter.’_

“I-I think it’s after me. If you can, you run and don’t look back!”

Sam felt his pulse jump from breakneck to heart attack as the creature drifted into the clearing and landed on the ground with a sickening grinding noise. It was humanoid and tall, taller than him. Translucent, leathery grey skin stretched over bones, jagged angles protruding everywhere. In some places, bright white bone gleamed in the low light. It was obvious the being had no flesh, only bones wrapped in a thin membrane that looked ready to rip with every step it took towards him. Large, talon-like feet stalked along the ground, closing the space between them quickly. A bow made of bones and sinew was strapped to its back, though the quiver looked empty. It held a spiked club in its other hand, pieces of flesh still hanging to the gnarled edges. The figure swung the bow around and grabbed the air behind it, appearing to load an arrow onto the bow.

From fifteen feet away, it released its invisible arrow and this time Sam screamed as it pierced his stomach. Lindsey was yelling for him now but all he could recognize were the blazing red eyes growing larger and the disconcerting notion that emptiness was seeping out from his arrow wounds. Glancing down through the rips in the fabric, he could see the skin around the punctures was turning grey and leathery. The slide of desiccated skin over bone was disturbingly loud now. He snapped his head up to stare into the creature’s smoldering red eyes. A series of crunching pops were the only other thing he noticed before he was sent flying sideways. Collecting his dwindling strength, he saw the creature had struck both him and the post, splintering it with its brawn. Within seconds it was standing over him, club held high over its head.

“Lindsey, run!” was all Sam could shout before the monster brought the weapon crashing down on his hips.

Lindsey managed to pull herself up off the remaining stump of the post and turned to see what was happening. She struggled to hold back her vomit as she spun and ran, absolutely sure that she would have nightmares for the rest of her life about a living skeleton dragging Sam’s limp, broken body into the shadows. And yet she knew she had to count herself lucky, because his hellish ordeal had only just begun.


	7. Guilt

Dean would be the first to admit that a day spent around classic cars and picking up women was time well spent. But it just wasn’t quite as much fun when he didn’t have someone to joke around with or anyone to ridicule him for his proclivities. The interaction with the wax museum owner had been hella awkward on his own. He sighed, suppressing the nagging thought of ‘ _I miss Sam.’_ Despite the affection currently making his heart tender, he had to remind himself that Sam wasn’t really _his_ Sam anymore. He hadn’t been for a while. Sam picked a demon over him and in doing so, had started the Apocalypse. He—

His phone rang and he flinched, refocusing on the empty room around him. Grabbing the phone, he half-hoped, half-dreaded it was his brother. Neither emotion was warranted.

“Hey Bobby, what’s up?”

“Just callin’ to see how you’re getting on with the hunt. Figured since you’re solo, you might want another set of eyes… or, well, ears…”

Dean ground his teeth at the reminder of the separation but chose to ignore it. “Well, seems like famous ghosts are ganking their superfans. The guy whose head was sliced open by the windshield? Huge James Dean fan. Had a replica of Little Bastard.” Bobby whistled in appreciation. “Another guy got shot in the head by Abraham Lincoln, who posthumously offed his biographer.”

“Huh. Weird, but okay. You find out what’s causing it?”

“Yeah. Turns out Canton, Ohio has a wax museum, owned by quite the earnest curator. Guy has items from the real people, like James Dean’s key chain, Lincoln’s hat, and Gandhi’s glasses.”

“You’re thinking ghosts? What’s makin’ ‘em kill people though?”

“Why so kill-crazy? Ah, maybe the apocalypse has got 'em all hot and bothered.”

“Maybe... Armageddon does seem to be stirring up a lot of stuff.”

“Yeah, well, we all know whose fault that is,” he spat, his anger winning out over his earlier sentiment.

“Dean!” Bobby chastised.

“Well I'm sorry, but it's true.”

“The poor kid’s miserable. He knows what he’s done and he’s sorry. He doesn’t even trust himself to hunt. It’s kind of sad.”

Dean winced. “I know, Bobby. It’s even worse than that. When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Few days ago. He reported some omens and wanted someone to take care of it cuz he didn’t think he was up to it. Passed the info onto to some other hunters.”

“And nothing since?”

“No. Why?”

“I talked to him middle of the night two nights ago and he had some pretty alarming news… He said Lucifer visited him in a dream and told him he was Lucifer’s true vessel.”

“What the—” There was a loud bang and muffled cursing along with scuffling sounds. “Dropped the phone. He said he’s Lucifer’s vessel?!”

“Yup.”

“And you believe him?”

“Had the misfortune of having it confirmed by Zachariah when he sent me five years into a future where Sam said ‘yes’ and the Apocalypse ruined the world, and then by Cas.”

“Wait, what did Zachariah do?!”

“I don’t know… Not even sure it was real. Point is, Lucifer is after Sam and he’s out there on his own. I’ve tried calling him the past two days but he hasn’t answered.”

“That’s not like him.”

“I know, it’s not…” Dean paused, unsure if he should tell Bobby the full story.

“But…” the older man drawled, urging Dean to spill the beans. Bobby knew him too well.

“But I, uh, I may have said some shit when he told me about Lucifer…” Dean admitted meekly.

Bobby’s concern morphed to anger almost instantly. “Goddamit Dean, what did you say to your brother?” Dean ran his hand through his hair, not wanting to repeat his cruel words. “Answer me, boy.”

Dean inhaled as if bracing for the verbal lashing he knew he would receive. “I basically told him I didn’t care that he was Lucifer’s vessel, that we were better off apart. Said he should pick a hemisphere. I kinda told him to stay away for good because we weren’t ever gonna be what we were before… I said the bad guys always use us against each other because we make each other weaker. I told him to fuck off, but in a lot more words.”

He closed his eyes as he heard Bobby inhale and exhale deeply, the older man steadying his temper. The string of curses Bobby emitted was colorful and provocative. Dean would have been impressed by the creativity if it hadn’t been directed at him. “No wonder he’s not calling you back. Probably thinks you’re just gonna chew him out some more. And based on your comment earlier, I’d say he’d be right! He’s made mistakes, Dean, but so have you. You don’t see Sam throwing it in your face.”

“Well…” He thought about what Sam had said when he was under the spell of the siren. ‘ _You're too busy sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Whining about all the souls you tortured in hell. Boo hoo._ ’

“Well what?”

“I… I was just thinking about what he said when he was affected by the siren.”

“Really? Because you were all hugs and kisses too? I seem to recall you wanting him to snuggle real close with that axe.” 

Dean shivered at the memory. “You’re right, you’re right. Just wish he’d pick up the damn phone.”

“You and I both know how Sam works. He just needs some time. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”

“Hope so. Gimmie a shout if you hear from him.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Bobby. Talk to you later.”

“Take care, Dean.”

Dean ended the call and forced a lungful of air out his pursed lips. This sucked. He shook himself loose and focused on gathering the necessary items to burn the ghosts.

As he picked the lock to the back entrance, he considered whether he should have some back up. He scrunched his nose in irritation. Who was he kidding? He was Dean Winchester! He didn’t need to hunt with someone, he just preferred it. He’d done just fine on his own while Sam was at college and his dad was busy tracking the yellow-eyed demon. Dean was damn good on his own, too. Sure, it was nice having Sam there sometimes, but more often than not, he was saving the gangly kid from danger, not the other way around. He didn’t need Sam. He was sure of it.

* * *

Returning to the motel after an uneventful salt and burn, he slipped off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. _That was easy,_ he thought, but it was quickly followed by Sam’s voice chastising ‘ _too easy._ ’ He scoffed and sat up, pouring himself a generous volume of amber liquid as he flicked on the TV. An untold amount of time passed as he nursed the whiskey to suppress his emotional discomfort. Something felt off, probably something about the hunt. _Sam would’ve known what is was…_ he thought with frustration. He sighed and rolled onto his side, drifting to sleep as he vaguely wondered what Sam was up to.

* * *

The crack of the club against his pelvis was the last thing he remembered. He had flashes of consciousness as he was dragged through the underbrush by a cool bony hand around his ankle. He knew he should try to escape but he had nothing left with which to fight. What was the point any way? Whether this monster killed him or Tim and Reggie did, the outcome was the same: he would be rebuilt ad infinitum, until he said ‘yes.’

The sound of breaking sticks and crunching gravel faded and was replaced with soft sliding and echoes. Opening his eyes, he realized Tim must have been right, the thing lived in the now-defunct mine. As he slid down corridor after corridor, he understood why the tracking device would be needed. Sam wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way out even if he did break free.

Periodically the glowing eyes would turn back to look at him and he would instinctively shy away from their stare. The being wasn’t only a monster, it was wrong, evil. He wracked his memory for what it could be but nothing came to mind. He vaguely remembered something with a similar appearance depicted in one of Bobby’s books, but the text had been in Japanese, so it wasn’t much use to him now.

The creature finally came to a stop and turned its full attention to Sam. Laying on the floor, Sam was surrounded by complete darkness except for the pair of red dots approaching his face. The grotesque body slid and popped as it arranged itself over Sam’s prone form. Despite not appearing to have lungs, it buried its head into the crook of Sam’s neck and took a deep breath.

An invasive force pressed against his groggy mind. _‘I know not what to do with you, hunter,’_ the thing whispered in his head. It paused momentarily, as if weighing its options. _‘Do I eat you or turn you?_ ’

“Turn me?!” Sam gasped, attempting a feeble escape.

The monster shrieked and Sam froze involuntarily. _‘Yes... We seem to be kin...’_ it replied almost fondly. Sliding its hand under Sam’s shirt, it rubbed softly around the arrow wounds, eliciting whimpers of discomfort from Sam. ‘ _The poison... it’s turning you. We are similar. You are ripe for transformation.’_

Sam’s pain-addled brain was turning a million miles an hour as he tried to keep up. He could feel a difference in the skin around the punctures, it was taut and leathery. The patches of disgusting skin had blossomed out across his body. Apparently, somehow, he could become one of these creatures instead of just being dinner. He didn’t know which thought terrified him more.

“Why me?” he asked, fearful of the answer.

‘ _The power senses your betrayal. You have dishonored your tribe and been left to die...’_

Sam’s throat constricted at the concise statement, knowing it was true. Clawed pressure crept down his body from his head and Sam couldn’t even tell if it was physical or not. ‘ _You are a great warrior. Together we will make a great tribe of our own, warriors to defend the future in these uncertain times.’_

Two shriveled fingers pressed against his eyes while the other hand slipped inside his mouth,

forcing its way down his throat. He gagged and tried to scream, but all the moisture was leaching out of his body into his captor as foul pieces of skin caught on his teeth and disintegrated on his lips. The creature was in up to its gnarly, protruding elbow when it began to chant in a language Sam did not recognize.

The hand over his eyes moved over his heart and the creature let out a deranged scream. As if drawn from the surrounding darkness itself, heavy inkiness sealed around him like a lead blanket and his desire to escape drained out of him. Something inside him shifted under the weight and he felt his humanity receding as if it were nothing but a wispy fog struck by burning midday sun. He was powerless to stop the tide of _him_ rushing away from him, he could only stare into the red eyes penetrating every aspect of his being and robbing him of what made him good and whole.

Abruptly, he was dropped onto the stone ground from several feet in the air, though he had no recollection of being lifted up. The painful rays streaming from the back of his head were pierced by the creature’s voice, disdain spilling out and infiltrating Sam’s disoriented mind.

‘ _I can see the stain on your spirit, hunter, and it shocks even me_ ,’ it hissed, disgust edging into its raspy voice. Hollow pops and the grind of bones echoed around the space as the creature stood. ‘ _You are not deserving of the power which Malsumis could bestow. You are the one who would bring the end for creation. I think it is best for all that I devour you and sate my hunger with your life force_.’

Sam had no time to react to the monster’s damning assessment before sharp claws dove into his flesh and pried open his rib cage with numerous angry cracks bouncing off the walls and finding a home in his ears. His screams were short-lived as his lungs were sliced open and blood filled his airway. Blood soaked hands tore away at the skin and muscle covering his abdomen and his brain screamed for the release of unconsciousness or death.

Tendrils of weight held onto him, keeping him awake. ‘ _No, you must suffer. Malsumis must see. He will reward me for destroying the one who enables the curse of the universe. You are a plague and you must be annihilated_!”

With a few vigorous tugs in his gut, something was lifted away from him. It must have been held aloft because warm drops of blood were splattering all over his tear-streaked face. Insanity-provoking wails emanated from the thing and Sam was driven to clasp his hands over his ears. It was no use though, for the screaming came from within his mind. His guttural cry joined that of the creature as a decrepit hand plunged into his chest and tore out his heart, the last sound on his lips an urgent and terrified “Dean!”


	8. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken and modified from the show. No copyright infringement intended.

“Dean!”

The panicked cry had Dean awake and alert in record time, scanning the room for a threat. But the bed next to him, the bed he’d paid for out of mere habit, was empty and untouched.

He ran his hand over his face, trying to remember the dream that had woke him. Nothing concrete came to him. Glancing at the clock, it was just past 11 pm. He considered going out to a bar to distract himself from his anxiety, suppressing the thought that usually Sam was here to soothe him from a nightmare. Sam’s presence had been invaluable those first few months after he was rescued from Hell. He tried to brush off the apprehension coiling around his stomach but he knew the rest of his slumber would be uneasy. With a sigh of resignation, he buried himself under the covers and tried to forget the world.

* * *

The agony that had consumed his body seemed like it was behind a frosted glass—he knew it was there, but it was vague and he couldn’t define any sensation. When he mustered the strength to open his eyes, he immediately saw why. Lucifer was leaning against the hood of the Impala, looking up at the night sky, a perfect replica of Dean’s easy-going wonder. Sam stood several feet away from him, studying his calm features. He knew he should run but he doubted how productive that would actually be. After almost a minute of silence, Sam sighed and lifted his eyes to the sky as well. He almost gasped with bewilderment. The sky was alight with dancing curtains of ethereal light, the gentle spill of the Milky Way brilliant and still. The green and blue waves were mesmerizing, streaks of red and purple flaring through. It was nature at its most surreal, most awe inspiring, most _divine._ Entranced as he was, Sam almost didn’t hear the soft words.

“Creation is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Sam could only nod before the cognitive dissonance reached him and he snapped his attention back to Lucifer. The angel’s face was still bent towards the heavens, a slight smile on his lips. “But you want to destroy it,” Sam accused.

Lucifer shook his head and looked to Sam. “No, I don’t. You misunderstand me. I want to eliminate the scourge that would destroy my Father’s incredible work. Humans are eating up all that is good on this planet, the crowned jewel of Dad’s creative efforts. He thought you would be responsible, that your sense of stewardship would drive you to protect this paradise. But as I showed him, you are weak, selfish, corrupt. My Father has thrown up his hands in defeat but I won’t allow it. I can’t allow all this,” he glanced up at the delicate choreography of light and color, “to be destroyed because of man’s folly.”

Sam looked away from Lucifer’s earnest proclamation, knowing that in some ways, the devil wasn’t wrong. Humans were ruining the environment, trading natural wonderment for personal gain. But that still didn’t justify roasting half the planet in Michael and Lucifer’s fight.

“You know I’m right, Sam,” he continued. “You know creation itself is worth whatever sacrifice is necessary. Why are the fleeting lives of humans more valuable than the infinite majesty of the cosmos? Think about it, it doesn’t add up. That’s why I need you to say ‘yes’, Sam, because of what’s at stake. Can’t you see how valuable you are, how valiant the cause is? You would be doing the right thing.”

Sam could feel Lucifer’s icy blue eyes boring into him. He knew Lucifer was trying to guilt trip and manipulate him, and goddammit, it was sort of working. But Sam was a Winchester and they were nothing if not stubborn. The longer the silence became, the more aware he became of the faint chirps and buzz of the aurora oscillating above him. He refocused his attention on the luminous, shimmering bands. He wished Dean were here to enjoy this because they had never seen the aurora before. With that thought came profound grief – they would never see it together – but also newfound determination. Lucifer didn’t have the right to take this, the ability to experience the universe as God made it, away from anyone. There was still so much beauty in the world. Humans may be flawed, individuals may be selfish and destructive, but as a group they were trying their best. Lucifer shouldn’t have the power to cut God’s greatest experiment short. Basking in the soft light, he felt every person should have the chance to behold this exquisite, abstract ballet.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment then gazed into Lucifer’s. “No. I don’t agree with you. Humanity has done a lot of bad but we’ve done a lot of good, too, and I will not be a part of wiping it out. My answer is still ‘no’.”

Lucifer let out a heavy sigh and pushed himself up off the gleaming black metal, the hood denting slightly around his frustrated fists. “How can you feel that way after what those hunters are doing to you?”

Sam’s jaw twitched as he turned away. “Like I said, the individuals can be bad but as a whole we’re good.”

Lucifer nodded knowingly and took the few steps over to his vessel. “Mm-hmm… So you’re content to go back to their clutches?”

“I don’t have any other choice.”

“That’s not true…” Sam felt a cold hand on his shoulder and he flinched, twisting his body to escape the angel’s touch.

He stepped around Lucifer and put a hand on Baby, allowing the relief to flow through him. It wasn’t Dean, but it was the closest he could get to his brother now. He gulped down his fear and turned back to Lucifer, his hands firmly pressed to the reassurance of the cool metal frame. “There’s only one option I can live with,” he said resolutely.

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, an odd sympathetic smile creeping onto his face. “Living isn’t exactly what you’re doing right now…” Sam ducked his gaze to the ground. “I told you I was giving you one more chance and you have spurned me once again. I never wanted to hurt you, but my patience is not infinite.”

Sam pushed himself tightly against the car as Lucifer stepped into his personal space. “Do—do your worst,” Sam whispered, stuttering over his dread.

Lucifer traced a cool finger down Sam’s face and the human shied away from the disconcerting touch. “No, Sam, I won’t touch you, I don’t need to. I’m confident the captors to which you seem so eager to return will do more than enough to change your mind.” Lucifer’s freezing grasp sealed around Sam’s jaw and brought the man’s eyes back to the archangel’s serious face. “I’ll see you soon, Sam, but don’t think I’d leave you without a parting gift.” With a frigid smile, Lucifer pulled his hand back and snapped his fingers.

Sharp pain in his ribs greeted him as he blinked awake to complete darkness. He ran his hands down his sides, noting the warm stickiness dribbling from a small hole between the bones. It was right where the first arrow had struck him. He felt along the rest of his body and determined everything else was intact. _Is this what Lucifer meant?_ he thought. _Is this his ‘_ gift’ _? To not heal me completely?_ He groaned in despair as he contemplated that. The way his life was going the past few days, incomplete healings would leave him a mess in no time. But if he could escape…

He looked around the space, searching for the red eyes but instead found swirling yellow staring back at him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a clap rang out and suddenly the large cavern was illuminated. Sam blinked against the harsh change, his gaze taking in the hundreds of bones scattered around him before his eyes focused on the first true bane of his existence.

“My, my, look how my favorite child has grown! Mm! What did I tell you? Demon blood really is better than mother’s milk!”

Sam tried to back away, but Azazel merely sauntered forward to match his pace. “You’re not here,” Sam gasped as he backed himself into a corner. “It’s just the withdrawal. You’re dead.”

Azazel smirked smugly. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. What does it matter? My blood is inside you, Sam. _I_ am inside you! Here or not, dead or not, you can’t escape me.”

The shaking human clutched his head in his dirt-stained hands. “No, it’s just the withdrawal, just the withdrawal.”

Azazel produced a stone-studded whip from his pocket. “Sadly for you, I don’t think your brain can tell the difference when I do this…” Flashes of light glinted off the obsidian teeth. “From the depths of Hell itself,” Azazel murmured, almost cooing to the fierce looking device. “You’re so close, Sam, so close to fulfilling your full potential… Perhaps you just need a bit more encouragement…”

Azazel snapped the whip against the floor and tiny sparks sprung out from the impact. Sam flinched as the angry crack reached his ears. “Ready for round one?” Azazel smiled and lifted his arm.

Gloating laughter mixed with howls of agony drowned out the echo of the whip’s impact and the wretched tearing of flesh.

* * *

Dean considered the options he had before him. Sam hadn’t been in touch for over two days now. He knew it was a bit premature to sound the alarm but the unease from the night before had not dissipated. As long as he knew Sam was okay, he could deal with the radio silence. He decided to head towards Bobby’s in hopes the older hunter would have some kind of low-key tracking spell. He was already at the outskirts of town when his phone rang. He snatched his phone from the cup holder, an unknown number lighting up the screen.

“Sam?!”

“Er, no… This is Sheriff Carnegie…”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Dean buried his disappointment and slipped into agent mode. “What’s the latest?”

“Well, um, I got a couple of girls at the station here who say Paris Hilton kidnapped their friend.”

“Paris Hilton?! As in…”

“Yeah, _the_ Paris Hilton. Not really sure what to make of this, but wouldn’t mind your help on this one.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be there in a few.”

He hung up the phone and made a u-turn, putting on hold his concern for his brother.

* * *

After interviewing the blabbering teens, Dean knew he had missed something. Begrudgingly, he reexamined the autopsy reports and even got dirty, annoyed that this fell to him in Sam’s absence. His frustration evaporated when he found the bizarre objects in the victims’ stomachs. He snapped a pic and sent it to Bobby, along with the relevant details.

His appetite surprised him despite his earlier gruesome explorations. He sat in a restaurant reviewing the details of the case when the phone rang.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean answered with a full mouth.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Bobby asked.

Dean rolled his eyes as he swallowed. “A man’s gotta eat sometime. Find anything?”

“Yeah, actually. They’re seeds. From _Buergeranum procerae_. Plant that can only be found in the Balkans. Tied to rituals for Leshi, a local shapeshifting forest god, who, ‘could be appeased only with the blood of his worshippers’.”

“Well I guess that explains why the victims were drained. How do you kill it?”

“Decapitation with an iron axe.”

“A bit personal but okay.”

Bobby paused awkwardly before continuing. “Dean, you sure you don’t want some back up? Ghosts are one thing but a god is another. You shouldn’t be going into this alone.”

Dean sniffed and considered this for a moment before dismissing it. “I’ll be fine, Bobby. I mean, c’mon, it’s Paris Hilton. What’s she gonna do, hit me with her purse?”

“You never liked Sam going off on solo hunts,” Bobby countered.

“Yeah, well, times change. You heard from him?”

“You’d be the first to know if I had. Guessing nothing on your end, either.”

“No. Starting to get kinda worried. Was actually heading out your way til the Sheriff called me back.”

“What do you think I can do that I haven’t already?”

“I don’t know, Bobby, tracking spell, something?”

“Dean, you know the good ones don’t work with just a piece of hair or something. We don’t have anything that would work.”

“Thought it was worth a shot,” Dean replied with disappointment.

“Look, we all know if the kid doesn’t wanna be found, you’re not gonna find ‘im. Just be patient Dean.”

“Alright. Thanks for the info. I’ll call you when I’m done ganking _The Simple Life_.”

* * *

Sam laid balled in the corner, his shredded skin leaking red all around him. Chunks were missing from his body and the agony was all-consuming. Absently he wondered if he not only couldn’t die, but if it took more for him to die than the average person. Surely a normal person would have succumbed to shock by now and he envied them. _But you’re not normal, are you? You never were…_ He envied the rest of humanity for the one thing humanity seeked to escape: death. What value is eternal life when living is Hell? The whip clawed into him again and he let loose an exhausted shout of pain.

Suddenly, hands were around his tattered shoulders, pulling him back. He searched the dark space above him for those hideous yellow eyes, confused to find bright red glaring back at him.

 _Hunter, I heard your screams. How are you alive?’_ Wiry, crusty hands examined his body. While relieved the lashings were gone, just a remnant of his withdrawal-induced hallucination, new dread filled him as leathery skin slid over his freshly healed frame. ‘ _Malsumis must have returned you to me as a gift! An everlasting torment for you, an everlasting feast for me!_ ’ The creature sounded gleeful as it tore into Sam’s abdomen for the second time and brought his warm, dripping liver to its mouth. Blood oozed out of the yawning gash in his body as he faded out once again, praying he wouldn’t wake up.

* * *

As Dean crept through the stupid wax museum, he wondered if he should’ve taken Bobby up on his offer of back-up. Taking on a god by himself probably wasn’t his brightest moment, but it was too late to back out now. A civilian was at risk and it was his duty to save her. He ignored the voice that told him _maybe she wouldn’t be in danger in the first place if you weren’t so arrogant, thinking you solved the case so quickly_. Stalking through the construction zone, he turned the corner to find the missing girl tied to a tree. Finding a pulse, he patted her cheek in an attempt to wake her up. He leant the axe up against the tree and began to untie the rope binding her when he heard a twig snap behind him. He turned right as Paris Hilton’s manicured fist met with his face and he passed out. 

* * *

A fiery ache punctured the space below Sam’s ribs, drawing his focus away from the arrow injury. Feeling his stomach in the darkness, claw marks pierced his abs. Gently probing one of the holes with a finger, he was relieved to discover that while the wounds were large, they were not deep and he was unlikely to bleed out from them. He rolled over and pushed himself up, doing his best to suppress the pain igniting his nerves. Scanning the darkness, no red eyes watched him. Now was his chance to escape.

He moved forward, arms stretched out before him in search of a wall. His feet found substance first as he tripped over something and landed in a pile of hard, rotting gore. Bones and liquifying flesh pressed against him and he recoiled from the overpowering stench. Sliding out of the putrefying matter, he stood again and resumed his search, albeit with more caution. Finding a wall, he placed his right hand on it, remembering that following the right wall of a maze would eventually get you to the exit. Dean had always found Sam’s tactic to be too academic, much preferring the focus necessary to remember which ways you had already tried and the satisfaction of figuring it out with skill instead of bland protocol.

He shook his head to dispel the vague memories. They were of no use to him now. He continued to follow the wall, his bare feet placed with trepidation as he sought to avoid holes, rocks, or more bones. Time was meaningless in the cave; he couldn’t even remember when he had last seen natural light. A spell of dizziness surged through him and he leaned against the wall. Running a hand over his injuries, they were bleeding slightly, but not enough to cause this! As he thought about it, he realized it had been a long time since he’d eaten or drank anything. Hypoglycemia and dehydration would do him no favors during an escape attempt, but he had to keep going. He began moving again, eventually almost dropping into a trance as he repeated the mantra “one more step, one more step, one more step,” as a way to coordinate his wavering strength.

An eternity had passed and he felt no closer to an exit. He trudged forward, his feet numb but surely bleeding. He turned a sharp corner and was suddenly blinded by the brightest light he had ever seen. His hands flew to his face to shield his eyes.

“There you are!” a familiar voice shouted, a voice he was sure he knew, a voice he had tried to forget – _Oh God, no,_ Sam’s mind wailed as he sagged to the ground.

Hands were quickly upon him, dragging him up, pulling the young man back towards where he had fled. “No, don’t make me go back there,” he begged.

“We’re not done with the hunt, yet,” Tim said coldly. “What can you tell us about the monster?”

Sam said nothing, too in shock looking at the hand he had used as a guide on the wall. It was raw, the skin scraped off by the rough stone and bits of bone poking through. How the hell had he not noticed that?!

“Freak!” Tim barked and paused to kick Sam in the ribs, reigniting the violent pain of his arrow wound.

“I don’t know!” Sam cried, his mind struggling through the haze. “Never seen it before,” he panted. “Taller than me. Like a skeleton with grey skin on it. Red, glowing eyes. Has talons for feet. Invisible arrows.” He wracked his fragmented mind for relevant details. “Said it had dishonored its tribe. Talked about someone called Malsumis.”

“Malsumis is an Algonquian god,” Reggie murmured.

“What did it want with you?” Tim asked.

“To eat me…” Sam answered weakly. Sam had no desire to mention the monster’s other intention.

“Alright, well, that should be enough to figure out what it is. We’ll just plop ya back in its den and we’ll be back once we know how to kill it.”

“What?!” Sam wheezed, aghast. “Why can’t you take me with you?!”

“Still gotta be able to track it. I figure it will keep munching on you as long as you keep coming back.”

“Please, no…” Sam whispered, letting his head fall in defeat, tears tracking through the grime coating his face.

“Sucks to be a monster,” Tim quipped, feeling no qualms about returning the subhuman to a place of torture.

* * *

The sound of a blade sharpening roused him from unconsciousness. Paris— no, Leshi, looked up at him. “Oh. I'm so glad you're awake for this. This is gonna be huge.”

Dean glanced to the side, seeing that Danielle was still bound, but to his surprise, awake. He winked at her then turned back to the god. “Super. Yeah, I wouldn't wanna miss it.” He pulled at his ropes and side-eyed Danielle, hoping she would understand to do the same.

“I mean, I've been stuffing myself with fast food lately. So it's nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice, slow meal for a change.

“Nothing wrong with fast food,” Dean complained. “But I get ya, sometimes it’s nice to have a homemade meal.”

“You have no idea. People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, with smiles on their faces.”

“Yeah, I guess these days nobody gives a flying crap about some backwoods forest god, huh?”

Leshi stopped filling her nails and glared at Dean. “No. Not since they cut down my forest and built a Yugo plant.”

“March of progress, sister.”

She resumed filing her nails, if only for the satisfaction of seeing how the sound was irritating Dean. “For years now, I've been wandering. Hungry. Scared. Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy. But then, the best thing ever happened.” She put down the knife and looked up at Dean. “Someone tripped the apocalypse. And I thought, what the hell, I'm tired of watching what I eat. I wanna pig out. So I found this little place. It's awesome. Adoring fans stroll right in the door.”

Dean felt a flash of rage and shame but pushed it down. He could deal with his feelings later. “They’re not really _your_ fans though,” he countered.

“So? They worship Lincoln, Gandhi, Hilton... whatever. I'll take what I can get.”

“You know, I gotta tell you, you are not the first god we've met, but you are...the nuttiest.”

“No, you, you people, you're the crazy ones. You used to worship gods. But this?” She motioned to her body. “This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What have they got besides small dogs and spray tans? You people used to have old-time religion. Now you have Us Weekly.”

“I don't know, I'm more of a Penthouse Forum man myself.”

She rose and approached him, hunger in her eyes. “Maybe, but... there's still a lot of yummy meat on those bones, boy.”

“Well I hate to break it to you, sister, but, uh... You can't eat me. See, I'm not a Paris Hilton BFF. I've never even seen House of Wax.”

“No. But I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy. Am I right?” She walked over towards Danielle, turning her back on Dean. He tugged vigorously at his ropes “And this belonged to him. Didn't it? Poor little Dean. All you ever wanted was to be loved by your idol. One distant father figure, coming right up.”

As she knelt to grab the handle, his binding finally gave and he tackled her to the ground. Sliding out of his grasp, she kicked him until she was able to sit on his chest and pin him down. She began pummeling his face and his vision started to spin. Despite the swirling, he was able to notice that Danielle was no longer tied to the tree and the axe was missing.

“Cut off her head!” he cried out, hoping Danielle hadn’t just bailed. Abruptly the blows ceased and blood spattered his face. Looking up, a terrified Danielle stood panting, the axe drooped to the ground. He weakly held up his thumbs and murmured “great job” before allowing his head to clunk to the floor in relief.

After giving himself enough time to recover, Dean burned the body in a dumpster, dropped off the girl at the station, and gave his report to the sheriff. Pulling into the first motel he saw, he brought the car to a stop in the parking lot, relieved to have the spinning of his vision ease as his surroundings stopped moving as well. He called Sam’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Sighing, he dialed the older hunter and was heartened to hear a gruff greeting.

“Heya Dean.”

“Hi Bobby.”

“How’d the hunt go?”

“Was fucking nuts. I almost got killed by Paris Hilton. Leshi took Paris’s form to lure some teenagers. It got the drop on me while I was trying to untie Danielle, the kidnapped girl. Freaking thing had definitely gone off the rails… I was able to slip the rope and attack it, but, uh, I guess you were right about having backup. Luckily, Danielle has incredible aim and took out Leshi will one well-timed swing.”

Bobby would have laughed except for the fact that Dean could have died here. “Glad you got it, but no more solo hunts for you, Dean. Too dangerous.”

“Sam still isn’t returning my calls,” Dean challenged.

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you shouldn’t have been such an asshole.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have started the Apocalypse.”

“I know. But best you two can do now is to pack it back up.”

“Would be damn helpful if I knew where he was…”

“Last we spoke, he was in Garber, Oklahoma, working at a bar.”

“A bar, really?” Dean was surprised. Considering all the shit he gave Dean for spending so much time in bars, now he was working at one? Typical, hypocritical Sam.

“It’s quiet, low-key work. Can’t blame him.” Dean could.

“Whatever. Alright, I’m gonna recuperate here for a bit then see if I can find him. Thanks for all the help, Bobby.”

“No problem, Dean. Take care.”

“You, too.”

He hung up and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Sam was working some regular, boring job instead of doing his part to clean up the mess he made. He found it just made his headache worse so he popped a few painkillers and pushed Sam out of his thoughts completely, focusing instead on the inane babble of gameshow contestants.

* * *

The creature was tearing at him once again, gorging itself on his infinitely repairing body. He couldn’t help the screams erupting from his throat as a dull blade ripped along his tender flesh. The satisfied moan of the monster suddenly turned to a high pitched wail as it was pressed down against Sam. He opened his eyes and saw bright light illuminating a metal net spread over him and the hideous creature. Tim and Reggie rushed in, large ear protectors blocking out the insanity-provoking cries of the beast and moved small boulders onto the edges of the net to keep them pinned. The two began piling all the bones in the cavern on top of the net. The creature screamed and wailed, trying to force its way out by breaking the woven metal. Fighting through the creature-induced hysteria, Sam saw an edge lifting up and he pushed himself towards it. He would die from his current wounds but he’d like to avoid whatever fate awaited the blasted thing screeching above him.

Tim moved towards them and the creature stopped struggling, instead dropping down and wrapping its bony arms around Sam, its claws digging in to his biceps.

 _‘He is mine,’_ he heard the creature hiss. _‘I will die before you can have my gift!’_

“Oh you’ll be dying, alright,” Reggie responded, lifting a bag over the pile.

 _“Then he will die with me!”_ it threatened.

“Kinda the point,” Tim responded, emptying a bag over Sam.

There was a rattle of small stones pouring around him and a few fell on his chest. Picking one up, he realized it wasn’t a stone at all, but charcoal. Fresh terror seized Sam and his hands flailed urgently at the large rock preventing his escape. Tim laughed and brought his boot down on Sam’s head.

“Uh-uh, we’re getting a two for one special, here. Don’t spoil it.”

Something wet sprayed in Sam’s face and he immediately recognized it as lighter fluid. “Don’t, please!” Sam plead. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t die like this, not like his mom, not like Jess…

“Light ‘er up!” Tim shouted over the racket. Sam heard the strike of a match and braced himself.

The roar as the fire surged over the pile was not a sound he would soon forget. As the flames licked at his skin, he felt a new anguish consume him as he thought of Jess and the absolute terror and misery she must have experienced in her last moments. And maybe it was the demon blood withdrawal or perhaps the tears blurring his vision, but he swore he saw Jess up on the ceiling of that forsaken mine, her arms reaching out to embrace him, begging to join her flaming body with his, to unite in a cruel menagerie of burning hair, bubbling skin, and boiling tears. He wished he could have died with her all those years ago, he wished he could die with her here and now, but his torment was made all the worse knowing he would wake up again in one piece and she never would.


	9. Shame

When Sam woke up, he was back in the crate. He wasn’t cuffed but the reason for that was not the generosity of his captors: burns covered his naked body in sprawling patches. Angry red blistering skin suggested second degree burns over most of his body. Lifting his head sent a blizzard of pain crashing through his brain. He pushed through it, determined to take in his surroundings. He was on the floor of a different room. It looked like a cabin, though nothing gave him any clue as to his new location. As he scanned the room, he found a tripod with a small blinking red light between the two unmade beds. It took him a moment to realize he was being recorded. He shifted his limbs to preserve his dignity and immediately regretted it. Agonizing sensation enveloped his whole being and any further contact with the bars or his body sent fresh cries of pain along his battered nerves.

He sat immersed in misery for what felt like hours, unable to process much of anything besides his current suffering and the shame of being filmed. His anguish was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. He stayed perfectly still and pretended to be asleep.

The door swung open and two sets of footsteps trudged in. “Tim, look at him!” Reggie exclaimed.

“Holy shit!” Tim murmured and approached the cage, the scent of hard liquor on his breath. “He’s breathing and everything. That’s fucking unbelievable.”

“He’s still in pretty bad shape though. Look at those burns. Do you think he’s still healing or could Lucifer not fix him completely?”

“Let’s check the tape.”

Sam peeked an eye open to watch the hunters. Tim excitedly snatched the camcorder from the tripod and rewound the recording. The two men sat side by side on the bed, peering at the tiny screen, thus preventing Sam from seeing the video. Tim’s thumb brushed over the buttons and the device emitted an ear-piercing screech with undertones of a throaty yell. Sam recognized it as the creature’s enraged wails and his own dying screams. The sound was sanity-testing but the hunters just smiled. The yells turned to whimpers then faded out.

“So this was what,” Reggie checked his watch, “about thirty-one hours ago?” Tim grunted in agreement. “Fast forward through this part. We know what a pile of ash and bones looks like!”

Sam felt his blood drain from his pulsing skin to the floor. _A pile of ash?! They… they let me burn that long?!_ Bile crept up his throat and he fought to keep it down.

“Ooh, slow down, look. See that faint light? It’s forming around the bones.”

They sat in silence for at least ten minutes watching Sam’s resurrection on fast forward, Tim sipping a glass of amber liquid. “The light went away but he still has the burns…”

“Wonder why…” Reggie bent down and began unlacing his boots.

“Motherfucker!” Tim growled, tossing the camera on the bed. Sam closed his eye before Tim reached the cage.

“What?!” Reggie asked, looking up.

“He moved not too long ago. Bitch has been awake for a while, now, haven’t you?” Tim kicked the cage when he got no response. Sam bit his tongue to hold in the pain. “Answer me!” Tim roared, slamming his hands down on the top of the kennel. Whiskey leapt out of the glass and onto Sam’s skin, igniting a new fire of unbearable agony.

This time he couldn’t hold in his cry of pain.

“Thought so. You wanna tell me what your pal Lucifer is playing at here?”

“Nah-not my pal,” Sam panted. “Don’ know.”

“Bullshit. Did he not heal you all the way because he can’t or because he doesn’t want to?” 

Sam debated what to say. If he said it was because Lucifer couldn’t, then it implied Lucifer wasn’t as strong as everyone believed. Maybe that wasn’t such a terrible myth to generate… If Tim and Reggie became complacent, then maybe Lucifer would find them and kill them! But then he’d be in Lucifer’s hands and that would only be worse. So that left him with saying it was because Lucifer didn’t want to… But he’d undoubtedly be forced to explain Lucifer’s motive… Yet that could work to his advantage too. The more they tortured him, the more Lucifer refused to heal him, the more likely he would be to say ‘yes.’ It would be in the world’s best interest for them to go easy on him. He doubted they would see it that way but it was the best play he had available.

Apparently Sam took too long to answer because Tim decided to up the ante. “If you’re not gonna answer me when I ask nice, I’ll just have to incentivize you. Reggie, hand me the rubbing alcohol.”

Sam gasped and recoiled into the corner of the crate. “Please, no, I’ll tell you everything you need to know, please!”

“Little too late for that, freak,” Tim snarled, splashing a generous amount onto Sam’s scrunched up form.

The resulting howl had Tim opening the crate and clamping his hand over Sam’s mouth with alacrity. Scrambling for something with which to gag his captive, Tim found a dirty sock in the laundry pile and shoved it into Sam’s mouth. Minutes went by as Sam writhed in agony before he slumped against the side, exhausted. Tears spilled out of his eyes and irritated his blistered cheeks.

Tim pulled the sock out and wrapped his hand around Sam’s neck, pulling the young man forward. “Now listen here, you goddam abomination, what you need to learn is respect and obedience. I told John you were a little brat but he never listened. Me? I woulda beat the shit outta you every day til you stopped breathing unless I said you could. That’s what’s gonna happen now. So unless you want to take a bath in this stuff, you’re gonna tell me what Lucifer is up to.” He released Sam’s neck and pushed him into the back of the crate.

Sam wished he could wipe the alcohol-infused spittle from his face but knew he would just make it worse. He did his best to look squarely at Tim. “Lucifer is extremely powerful, more powerful than you know. He could easily heal me completely. But he’s choosing not to.”

“Why?” Tim asked sharply.

“Because he’s trying to force me to say ‘yes’ to being his vessel. He thinks that if you keep torturing and killing me, that it will whittle away my resolve, and I’ll say ‘yes’.”

“Will you?”

“I have no intention of saying ‘yes’, but surely everyone has a breaking point…” Sam unwittingly broke out the puppy eyes.

Tim scoffed. “You want to talk about breaking points? You? You broke _the world_ and you think we should go easy on you?” Tim shook his head. “You’re ridiculous. But—wait, what stops Lucifer from just finding you now and torturing you himself?”

“Ca—” Sam stopped himself, knowing he shouldn’t give these psychopaths any more information than necessary, especially if it could put Castiel, Dean, or Bobby at risk. “Cause,” he recovered, “another angel put Enochian warding on my ribs and Dean’s so Michael and Lucifer couldn’t find us.”

“Tim, do you think the fire would have destroyed it?” Reggie asked with concern.

“I don’t remember seeing anything or not. But, we can always add wards of our own, just in case,” Tim smirked maliciously and Sam wished he could ball up even more tightly. “That way, we can do anything we want and not have to worry about it. Plus, I’m not sure I even believe you. Maybe Lucifer doesn’t have the juice to fully restore you and you’re just bluffing about everything else.”

“I’m not, I swear,” Sam said earnestly.

“Only one way to find out,” Tim crooned and Sam watched his lips move in slow motion as he uttered “lots of experimentation.”

“ _Please, don’t,”_ Sam whispered, his throat closing around his voice.

Tim slapped Sam’s knee and smiled at the pained expression that briefly interrupted Sam’s fear. “Ah, don’t worry about it for now. We got another hunt for you to star in.” He leant back and closed the kennel, replacing the locks.

“Already?” Sam asked quietly.

“What, was the baykok too much for you?”

“The what?”

“Baykok. Little nasty that you roasted with the other night. Malevolent spirit monster from the mythology of the Anishinaabe Ojibwe tribes,” Reggie explained. “Some say they originate from the marred spirits of warriors who have committed particularly evil crimes, like fratricide or incest.”

“Or starting the goddam Apocalypse,” Tim spat.

_That’s why it thought it could turn me_ , Sam thought with horror and shame. _My soul is marred… Too marred for even the monsters to want me…_

“Anyway,” Tim continued, “buddy of mine called in for some help. Weird deaths happening that don’t really make any sense. He used a Ouija board to contact the victims and they said it was something demon-y. I told him we have just the thing for that.” He grinned viciously at Sam.

“Just something demon-y? No other details?” Sam asked so that he could prepare himself.

“That and a location to check out. We looked into it today, only found a sheltered kid that seems connected with the deaths. We did some research, turns out he’s adopted. No father is listed on the original birth certificate. We’re gonna go visit the mother in the morning. It’s seven hours away though, so I’ll be nice and give you an option: you can stay here as long as you’re quiet and well-behaved or we can load you up in the trunk.”

Neither option sounded appealing but the idea of his burned body being jostled in the back of a car for hours on end seemed like absolute misery. “I’ll stay here,” Sam said. “I’ll be quiet. You-you can even put the shock collar on,” Sam offered dejectedly.

Tim smiled to himself, content that the breaking and training of Sam Winchester was going so smoothly.


	10. Forced

Pain, exhaustion, and, intermittent sleep wracked with nightmares left him disoriented when the two hunters woke him at five AM by shackling his hands and feet to the bars of the kennel. Cold metal bit into his burns and the acute pain made him more aware.

“You don’ have t’do this!” he whined. “Said I’d be good.”

“Them’s the breaks, kid. If you wanna stay behind, we gotta make sure you’re gonna be here when we get back,” Reggie explained calmly.

“Wha ‘bout food ‘n water ‘n the bathroom?”

“That’s what this is for,” Tim said from behind him. Sam tried to look up but his burnt skin was crusty and rigid. Tim crouched and slid something through the bars. Reggie grabbed it and after a sharp pinch to the back of his hand, Sam realized they had hooked him up to an IV. “Has essential nutrients and fluids so you should be fine. And you got the tarp for your other needs.” 

Reggie leaned forward and secured the shock collar around Sam’s blistered neck. “We also got a camera set up so don’t get cute and try to escape.”

Sam felt the fight draining out of him. “Don’ fink I could ‘f I wan-ed to.”

“Good boy,” Tim murmured and patted the cage. “We’ll probably be back tomorrow morning. Have fun til then!”

They closed the curtains and gathered their belongings. With a sarcastic little wave, Tim turned out the lights and shut the door. 

Sam glanced around the darkened room as their footsteps faded. He pulled weakly at the cuffs but it was obvious there was no way out of his current predicament. Part of him yearned for Dean, wishing his brother could save the day like he had done so many times before. But that desire was crippled with humiliation. He didn’t want Dean, or anyone, to see him like this. Naked and dirty, starving, caged like an animal, strung out, and haunted by Lucifer. He was at absolute rock bottom and not even death could free him.

A soft breeze whistled around the cabin as he pondered an escape. There was no way he was getting out of this situation by himself. Would he be able to cry out for help before the shock collar cut him off? Even if he did, and someone heard him, who’s to say his potential rescuer wouldn’t just run away screaming? If he looked a quarter as bad as he felt, he would look horrifying. Diseased, probably. Okay, if he were to get to that point, then what? They’d said they were watching, would see if he tried to escape. If they were hours away, what would stop him? But, he still had that damn tracker, so he’d have to get someone to cut that out… _Yeah, cuz that doesn’t sound crazy at all! ‘Hey, can you cut me open and remove a tracking device that was embedded in me because I was intended to be kept as a demon-killing slave? Awesome, thanks.’_

He scoffed at himself and let his head fall back against the bars of the crate, even though the angry grind of his skin fought him the whole way. This just seemed so fucking hopeless. He honestly could not remember a situation as bad as this one. As far as he knew, no one would even be looking for him. Well, there was one… _being_ looking for him. He shook the thought from his mind. No, there was no way in hell he was going to ask Lucifer for help. _Talk about jumping out of the fire and into the frying pan! Or would it be the other way around?_ _Considering I was just burned alive…_

_Goddam it, focus!_ he chided himself. He really couldn’t blame himself too much, though. A significant amount of his thought and energy went to keeping the overwhelming pain at bay. He didn’t understand how he was not unconscious from the continual excruciating onslaught, though he suspected Lucifer might have something to do with it. All part of his ‘torture Sam until he says ‘yes’’ plan.

Voices outside the door interrupted his thoughts and he tried to gather the courage to shout for help. But by the time he cranked open his mouth and drew in enough air to his abused lungs, the voices had faded and his chance was gone.

He sat primed to scream at any possible moment for the next several hours, praying someone would walk by. Finally, gloriously, he heard laughter, a woman’s sweet laugh. He inhaled quickly and shouted “Help!” as loud as he could. The shock collar punished him viciously but it would be worth it if that door opened.

He held his breath as he listened and exultant joy filled him as he was rewarded with the sound of feet coming up the stairs. The doorknob twisted and the door opened easily, interrupting Sam’s relief with confusion. Tim and Reggie surely wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door, right? That didn’t make sense.

A tentative voice called out “hello?” into the darkness of the room and Sam loudly rattled the cage, indicating his presence without his voice. The light switch clicked and Sam blinked away the bright orbs dancing in his vision to be confronted with a face he never thought he’d see: his own, albeit younger.

This Sam had a Stanford hoodie on, his hair much shorter and his face free of so much anguish. He approached Sam in the cage with a look of horror and disgust on his otherwise pleasant features.

“What the hell is happening here?” he spat angrily.

Sam buried his head between his knees. Figures that the only thing that would come to save him would be a hallucination.

“Are you honestly telling me this what will happen? This is what I’ll become?!” The disdain in young Sam’s voice was blistering.

“I-I didn’t mean for—”

“You didn’t mean for it to turn out this way? Is that what you were gonna say? How could you let this happen! I got the fuck out of hunting! Made a life for myself! Found Jess, we were gonna get married. And here you are, shaking like a fucking leaf, cracked out and starved. You make me sick. I can’t believe you’re gonna let _me_ , with such a bright future ahead of me, turn in to you! How many fucked up decisions did you make to get here? How many chances did you have to stop this, to turn back?” When silence answered him, he kicked the cage. “How many?!”

“A lot!” Sam whimpered, shame bleeding out of every pore.

“And yet you threw it all away, for what? Because you knew better?”

Sam lifted his head but the fierceness of his younger self’s gaze was too intense. He looked away before speaking. “I – I guess so. I thought I did, but I was wrong…”

“Yeah you were fucking wrong. Look at me.”

Sam slowly brought his head up and met the violent stare he felt was razing his soul. He searched the hazel eyes for any shred of sympathy but found only loathing and revulsion.

“I hate you,” young Sam hissed and Sam resumed hiding his shame in his curled up body.

“You should,” he whispered.

“Why did you do this?” young Sam asked harshly, his fury clearly unappeased.

“The yellow eyed demon killed Jess, and it infected me with its blood when I was a baby… something was always going to happen…”

“So you’re blaming this on fate? The yellow-eyed demon did something to you, and even though you could have saved Jess, and you didn’t, you’re blaming the demon? Fate and demons, huh? You don’t share any responsibility in this epic clusterfuck?! You’re a goddam coward!”

Tears pricked his eyes and he couldn’t stop their advance. “I know, I know I am. I was afraid to face what was happening to me and Jess paid the price. I didn’t want dad or Dean to know what a freak I was… But none of it mattered. Everything I tried to do only made it worse! I tried, man, I really did. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I loved Jess, I still do, so much it hurts. I would do anything to go back and do things right.”

“Oh really now?” a soft feminine voice chimed in from behind young Sam’s towering form. Jess approached the kennel and Sam gasped with how beautiful she was. It always surprised him when he saw her, like his memories of her never did her justice. How had he been so lucky to be with someone so gorgeous, inside and out? Well, that was the thing — he wasn’t lucky. He was cursed. She had died because of him. “You’ll do anything?”

Sam nodded into his knees. “If I could go back and make it right, I would. I’d never leave Jess’s side. I wouldn’t go with Dean that night, I wouldn’t ignore the visions… I’d save her…”

“What if I told you that you could save me, you could bring me back?” Her voice was almost musical and he leaned into the bars, striving to get closer to her.

“I would love that,” he whispered. Gentle fingers reached down and stroked the crown of his head and he sighed with contentment at the balm of her touch.

“Then say ‘yes’ Sam, and you can bring me back, bring your mom and dad back, make everything as it should be in Paradise.”

As soon as the words sunk in, he opened his eyes and flung himself to the other side of the cage, ignoring the burst of pain that vied for his attention. “Lucifer,” he breathed. “Am I even asleep right now?”

Jess shrugged. “Does it matter? We’re connected, Sam. When your mind is weak, the connection is much easier to forge.”

Sam swallowed his fear and held Jess’s gaze. “No, the answer will always be ‘no.’ I love Jess, I would do anything for her, but she wouldn’t want me to damn the world for her sake. She’s too good for that. She deserves better.” He glanced at young Sam. “She deserves better than me. She wouldn’t want me as I am now, anyway. I’m not even human anymore.” Jess nodded, an odd mixture of sympathy and disappointment on her face. She drew her fingers out of the cage then faded away.

“That’s right,” young Sam began, “you’re not human. You’re a monster. A thing. You aren’t worthy of the name Sam Winchester. You’re an ‘it.’ A piece of trash that should be crushed and incinerated…”

The verbal abuse continued until words stopped having meaning in Sam’s exhausted brain, and he gladly surrendered himself to sleep, not caring what nightmares waited there.

* * *

Sam was vaguely aware of the kennel moving, of shifting light beyond his eyelids. But he just felt so tired. And his body ached so much. What had happened to him? Had he run a marathon while he slept? Obviously not but… what was happening? The insistent pounding strafing through his body was the only reminder he needed: withdrawal. It had been days since he’d had a fix and he needed to sort something out now. Only how would he do that when he was locked up in a stupid cage? He’d have to—

“Hey, freak!” Tim shouted, focusing Sam. “Did you hear what I was saying? The kid is some kind of demon spawn, so you should be able to take him out. Here’s what we know so far…”

Tim’s voice faded from awareness as his overwhelming need for blood overcame him. It was loud and angry, pulsing in his ears, flashing in his vision. He felt the vibrations coursing up and down his body. The withdrawal was tearing at him, thin slivers of ragged desire peeling every nerve. Sweat was pouring off his body and his head pounded. Lightning strikes of ravaging hunger pierced his flesh. His fingernails felt like they were being drawn out with needles, the tender skin around them flayed and throbbing. His breathing became heavy as he tried to control the violent fire terrorizing his soul.

The kennel door opened and firm hands wrapped around his arms and pulled. His burnt skin screamed in protest but the cry was drowned out by the infernal torture gripping the rest of his body. A harsh slap cracked across his face and he focused his attention outside his body.

Tim was inches from his face. “Alright, freak, we’re going in to gank the kid, and if we can’t, it’s up to you.”

“I— I can’t—I don’ have i’— I—”

Tim slapped his face again and Sam groaned as his neck snapped to the side. “Shut up. You’ll do as you’re told, dog. Alright, we only have a little bit left, so it will just have to do.”

Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial. He screwed the cap off and wafted the air towards Sam. The scent hit him like a ton of bricks. Craving seized his entire being and it took every ounce of willpower not to beg for the vile substance. Sweat quickly began beading on his damaged skin and he could not suppress the slight tremor rumbling through his body.

“Look at you, you’re a fucking junkie. You’re disgusting! Pathetic.” Tim brought the open tube up to Sam’s lips. Knowing fighting was futile, he put up a token resistance to soothe his conscience before taking in the blood. It was cool and old tasting, but the quick rush of power was refreshing. And how quick it was. The few drops that had hit his tongue did nothing to relieve his withdrawal; if anything, it made it worse. But the hunters didn’t care how Sam was feeling. He whimpered as they roughly pulled him forward and up towards the house. 

A faint thrum overcame his agony and he focused on it, realizing it was actually a heartbeat. It was not his. A hint of sulfur threaded under his nostrils and he understood. There was a demon nearby. “There’s – there’s a demon here,” he gasped between his pants for breath.

“For the kid?” Reggie asked.

“Guess so,” Sam answered weakly, unable to focus on anything but the heart beat blaring in his head.

Screams and the sound of a struggle erupted from the second floor. Aborting their original plan of stealth, the hunters hauled Sam up to the door. Kicking it down, they drug Sam inside and up the stairs. They turned the corner to find a young boy standing between what looked like his parents and an angry blonde woman.

“Julia!” Tim called out. The woman turned towards them and her eyes flicked black. Sam felt his vision narrow to her and only her. He was pushed forward, Tim’s voice hissing in his ear. “Kill her, now!” He lifted his hand and focused his power, but no fire flowed through his soul. Her hair billowed in the weak breeze and she laughed.

“Don’t got the juice, huh, sweetheart?” the demon teased. “Just as well. Don’t need you morons getting in the way here.” She turned back to the young boy. “You, baby, are just so special. You don’t know it yet, but you are gonna wipe the slate clean.”

“What do you mean?” the mother asked, her voice shaking in fear.

“Your adopted little boy here,” the kid’s eyes widened and she smiled, “oh, you didn’t know? Well, I’m your real parents. Mommy,” she slid her hands down her body seductively, “and daddy,” her eyes went black again and she smiled. “We made you and you’re everything we wanted you to be. You are so powerful, fit to be at Lucifer’s right hand as the Antichrist.” She took a step towards the boy, her arm stretched out to grab him.

A shot rang out and blood sprayed out from the demon’s shoulder. Sam was close enough that some landed on his hand. Unable to resist the temptation, he brought the finger to his mouth and indulged in the sweet taste of fresh blood from a living body. His eyes drifted shut and he let the shred of tingling warmth spread through his limbs. When he opened his eyes, he saw the demon facing them, her eyes pitch black, her demonic force flowing out of her. At the edge of his attention, he heard Tim and Reggie’s groans of pain as they crashed into the wall.

Pure desire bubbled up through his physical agony and he felt his resolve crumble like dry autumn leaves under a boot. He launched himself forward, tackling the woman to the ground. His weight pinned her light frame as he sealed his lips around the bullet hole and he sucked in a heavy draught of her blood. His tongue probed the hole in her arm, coaxing more blood from the angry wound. Searing light erupted in his soul and instantly spread to every famished nerve. The dry channels filled to the brim and flushed out the detritus of misery and shame that had gathered there. He continued to drink, striving to slake the thirst that was threatening to obliterate his sanity. He couldn’t fight the feeling of relief that consumed him, the sheer pressure that had been crushing the life out of him quickly burning away to ash. A part of him knew this was wrong, this was evil, but a much large part simply didn’t care: _he just wanted the unending hurt to stop_.

Something painful scratched through his ecstasy and he knew he had to return. Fighting through the blissful mire, he felt he was halfway to sating his thirst when he felt himself pulled back by the shoulders. The animalistic desire to feed his addiction surged to the surface as he turned with a vicious snarl on his face. No sooner had he registered the gun pointed at him and the splash of agony in his side than had Tim shoved the cattle prod into his ribs. The sharp jolt of pain sapped his strength and he slid into Reggie’s renewed grip.

Tim fisted his hand in Sam’s hair and pulled his head close. “Enough! Gotta leave some for later.” Tim tilted his head to Reggie, who went over and collected some of the demon’s blood in a bottle. “Now kill the demon.”

Sam growled at the order but was relieved to have been able to drink as long as he had. He turned to the demon, the vessel’s body unconscious on the floor. With the demon so weak, Sam barely had to draw on his power to pull it out. The fiery light inside him rose up as if disturbed by a pebble before settling once the demon burned into the floor. He smiled with spite, pleased to destroy one more despicable creature.

Tim tugged on Sam’s hair to regain his attention. “Now that you’re all juiced up, take out the goddam monster over there! You think you get a rush from regular demon blood? Imagine the high the _Antichrist_ will give you!”

Sam froze, his mind instantly warring with itself. Yes, the power he’d get would probably be immeasurable! His muscles tightened with excitement, his nostrils flaring, seeking the boy’s scent. At the same time, sickening horror sieged his heart. It was a little kid! Who had done nothing wrong! He wasn’t even possessed. It wasn’t his fault who his parents were! There was no way he could justify any of this!

He was quiet a few moments as he struggled to suppress his unquenched hunger. “No,” he forced out through clenched teeth. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s just a kid.”

Tim scoffed and wrenched Sam’s head back, his disgust evident as he eyed the blood drying on Sam’s face. “He’s the fucking Antichrist! We need to take him out now!”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong though!” Sam repeated. “He can fight it! He still has the chance to do the right thing.”

Tim slammed Sam’s head down into raised knee, eliciting a howl of pain from the young man as his nose shattered. “Sorry, Sammy, but seeing as _you_ didn’t do the right thing, I can’t take that risk with anyone else. Now, I see a freak, I kill it. Just like your brother shoulda killed you the moment he found out what you were. I’m not gonna make the same humanitarian mistake. So, go drain that goddam demon spawn before you find out how generous I can be with these bullets!” Tim pistol whipped him and pushed him down to the ground towards Jesse.

The terrified child was standing protectively in front of his parents. The two locked gazes, the fear in each feeding off the other. The boy’s wide eyes reminded him of a young Dean, memories of Dean taking care of him time and time again assaulting him. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t. He shook his head and looked down to the floor.

Over the pounding in his skull, Sam heard a murmured “stupid bitch” before a gunshot blasted far too close to his head. An obnoxious whine screamed at him and he couldn’t hear anything else. Bringing his hands to his ears, he felt blood trickling out of one ear.

Not feeling any new pain, he looked up to see the father clutching the mother, who had blood pouring from her chest. The child turned and tried in vain to comfort his wounded mom. He stood and seemed to quickly assess the situation before spinning back to Sam with his own version of puppy eyes. His eyes darted to the hunters behind him before returning to Sam’s. The kid spoke but Sam could not hear him. He focused his blurry vision and read the kid’s lips: _Do it. To save them._

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, struck by how odd it felt to speak but be unable to hear it.

The child nodded and produced a tiny pocket knife from his pocket, which he held out to Sam.

Sam swallowed his fear and excitement and guilt and hunger and shame and crawled the few steps over to the trembling boy. He took the knife in his hand, a little Swiss army knife engraved in cursive with ‘Jesse Turner.’ He flicked the knife open and Jesse tilted his head back, offering his neck. Disgust and pleasure fought for control in Sam, but he willed himself forward despite this. His shaking hand brought the blade to the pale skin and he expertly, albeit carefully, sliced open the carotid artery. Blood eagerly burst forth and Sam hesitated, only leaning forward when a tiny hand grabbed his. As if Sam was the one who needed the comfort! 

The warm blood flowed into his mouth and he instantly knew something was wrong. There was no electric pulse, no satisfying flare through his body, no energizing wave in his soul. His blood did not have the same effect as demon blood!

He instantly pulled back and looked at the two vile hunters, shaking his head. Tim’s mouth was open and screaming but the deafening whine had not left Sam’s ears. Tim raised his gun towards the parents and Jesse pulled Sam’s body into his, urging him to keep going no matter what. The boy twisted his head around to look at Sam, his too-green eyes bright with tears. His lips were repeating ‘please’ and when Sam brought his gaze from his mouth to his eyes, all he saw was Dean and absolute despair overcame him. His own tear-filled eyes met Jesse’s and he nodded, placing his bloodied lips back over the boy’s wound. He used his teeth to further open the cut, hoping to speed up this gruesome process. Nausea filled him just as human blood filled his stomach. Self-hate swelled within him until the only things he knew were how much he despised himself and the overpowering coppery taste of human blood. It felt like an eternity, sucking down the lifeforce of another person, a child no less. Eventually the tiny hand holding his let go and not long after, the weakened pulse pushing blood into his mouth ceased altogether. He gently laid the boy’s body to the ground and remained staring at it, everything in him numb.

Three gunshots in quick succession caused Sam to flinch and look around. The former meat suit and the parents were decorated with single bullet holes to the head, their dead bodies slumped over. “Why?! Why kill them?!” Sam cried, his anguish heightened by the futility of Jesse’s sacrifice.

“Don’t want any witnesses, right?” Tim explained callously. He stepped forward to study Sam. “You feel even more badass, now?”

Sam blinked back the tears and looked up at his captor. He shook his head. “It had no effect. You made me drink him for nothing. But I did what you wanted, so can you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” Tim replied, seemingly disappointed in the outcome of this little experiment.

“Empty your clips into me, please.”

“With pleasure!” Tim said but Reggie grabbed his arm.

“Wait, we gotta get rid of the bodies and clean up. I don’t feel like carrying five people out!”

Tim nodded. “Yeah you’re right. Alright, slave, get moving.”

The two hunters made Sam do all the work, only assisting when it was clear Sam could not move the weight of the father by himself. They mocked Sam while he worked, teasing him for the way he was bawling, excoriating how disgusting his addiction was, laughing about how painful his various injuries must be. The gunshot wound from earlier was steadily seeping blood and Sam’s strength was flagging. When he faceplanted while wiping up spattered blood, the two men howled with delight and kicked him while he was down. When he scrubbed the last stain out with bleach, he tossed the rag into the bucket and rose to his knees.

“Please, please kill me now,” he begged.

Tim looked at him disapprovingly. “Really? And make us clean up your mess? Uh-uh. We gotta put something down to catch everything.” Tim left the room briefly while Reggie kept his pistol trained on Sam. When he returned, he was holding a blanket with blue horses running across the tan background. “The kid’s comforter. Thought it was fitting.” He grinned like he’d told the world’s funniest joke and he laid it down in front of Sam. “Get in the middle.”

Sam did as he was told, crawling on his hands and knees to the center of the blanket. He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at his torturers.

Tim lifted his gun and Sam closed his eyes. “Time to make ya Swiss cheese!” he laughed and pulled the trigger.

Within seconds sixteen bullets ripped through Sam’s battered body and he screamed like his lungs were going to explode from the sheer pressure. The sound was abruptly cut off as a perfectly placed round found its home between his eyes. He sank into darkness and was able to cling to the fact that two good things had happened here: he’d gotten what he’d deserved and at least this time, he was able to choose death.


	11. Worry

Dean stared into the now-cold coffee swirling in his mug. It had been a week since he’d spoken with his little brother. He rested for a few days in Cleveland after being taken down by _freaking Paris Hilton_ then drove to Bobby’s once his funds had run low. His vision hadn’t recovered 100% from the fierce beating he’d received but he was confident there wasn’t any permanent damage. His depth perception was still severely affected though: the bruises on his thighs and shins from running into things were a testament to that.

Bobby was watching him wear a rut into the floor with his pacing. Dean’s anxiety was infectious. It was radiating off the young man in thick, oily waves that clung to everything. Both hunters knew Sam’s behavior was unusual but neither had been willing to openly admit the potential implications of the prolonged radio silence. There were only a few options and none of them were particularly appealing: Sam was purposefully avoiding Dean’s and Bobby’s calls because he was unwilling to forgive Dean or both of the hunters, or was too depressed to do so; Sam was consciously or accidentally avoiding them because he was back on demon blood or caught in withdrawal from a relapse; he was unable to answer the phone because he was hurt, captured (possibly by Lucifer), or, both hunters thought with chilling unease, dead. If Sam was just avoiding them, he’d come around eventually. If he had relapsed, Dean would be beyond pissed, but he’d do whatever necessary to get Sam clean again. If Sam was hurt or captured, they’d find him and patch him up. They knew Lucifer couldn’t have him yet because _they would know_. But if he was dead… Well, experience had taught them that it was best to let the dead lie. Bobby let out a sigh as he pondered whether Dean would follow their own advice when it came to Sam.

“Dean,” Bobby began sympathetically.

Dean spun on his heel and his expression was slightly manic. “Something’s wrong, Bobby, I just know there is. Sam wouldn’t hold out on me for this long. I know he’s changed some but I don’t think he’d do this if he had his head on straight.”

Bobby nodded. “I agree with ya. But we also don’t know if he _does_ have his head on straight. He’s a good kid, and I really hope he’s still clean, but you gotta factor that in. On top of that, Sam, he’s…” Bobby paused and the tension on the older hunter’s face halted Dean’s reply. Bobby looked up and held Dean’s gaze though his eyes were timid. “He’s so much weaker without you, Dean. When you went to Hell… The way he… I… I thought I’d lost him too.”

Dean’s frenzy chilled as Bobby spoke. “What do you mean?”

“We stayed in Pontiac for a few days trying to figure out what to do. By the time we buried you, he hadn’t showered for days, not sure when he’d eaten last… He reeked of booze. Don’t even know where he got it. Damn miracle he didn’t wreck your precious car. He wanted me to help him bring you back, at any cost. Had to hide some of my stuff in the car… Found him drunk one night trying to pry my damn trunk safe open with a crowbar. His fingers were bleeding and he was a mess. Got him cleaned up and put him to bed. Not sure how much he remembers… But he was gone the next day. You know the rest.”

Dean turned away from Bobby and towards the window, his hand running absently through his hair. _Sam._ His brother had refused to divulge many details of those four months without Dean. Not that he himself had been particularly forthcoming, but there wasn’t much that really needed to be shared. Sam, on the other hand, had undergone alarming changes, most of which he’d hidden from Dean. He supposed he always knew a lot of those changes and the decisions that lead to them were made under a heavy pall of grief, but to have it confirmed so explicitly was a little overwhelming to Dean. _He_ was the one who went into drunken rages, not Sam.

“Bobby, where did you say he was?”

“Garber, Oklahoma.”

He grabbed his leather jacket. “Then I’ll start there.”

“Dean—”

“Something’s just not right. Look, if he’s there and he’s fine, at least we know and I have a chance to talk to him. If he’s not there, I can pick up the trail.”

Bobby motioned to indicate his wheelchair. “Not like I can really stop you.”

Dean gave the older hunter an apologetic look. “I know. But I need to do this. I’ll keep you updated.”

“You might as well stock up on ammo and gear. Don’t know what you could be getting into. Not like I’m gonna be using it any time soon.”

Dean nodded and smiled appreciatively. “Thanks, Bobby. I’ll bring ‘im home.”

“I know you will. Now get going. You’re burning daylight.”

Dean took half an hour to pack Baby with whatever he thought he might need. There was every possibility that Sam was completely fine and was merely blowing off Dean’s calls, perhaps as a punishment for Dean’s harsh words. Yes, that could totally explain the lack of communication. But then why was Dean so convinced something was wrong? With any luck, he’d have his answer in under eight hours.

* * *

Dean pulled in to the only bar in town and cut the engine. Due to some unusually bad storms in southern Kansas, the drive had taken him nearly nine hours. His brief perusal of the 824 person town both perplexed and made sense to Dean. Garber was barely a speck on the map and as such was a great place to hide out. On the other, what the hell was Sam planning on doing out here? There was literally _nothing_ in this town. Sam was far too restless to hang around here for long. Maybe he did blow town in search of greener pastures. Dean knew even he would. Fuck, only one bar in town? Screw that. At the rate he got kicked out of bars, he wouldn’t last long in Garber.

More out of habit than anything else, Dean dialed Sam’s phone again and was unsurprised to hear Sam’s voicemail. Dean threw the phone down on the bench seat, irritated. It was unlike Sam to ignore so many calls. Sure, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but it had been a week since they’d last spoken. He understood now—they were better as a team. They kept each other fighting. Well, he’d just have to find Sam so he could tell him that in person.

He left Baby with a loving caress across her hood and entered the bar. A few patrons were scattered inside and gave Dean the well-known look of locals appraising a stranger. Having been on the receiving end of countless unwelcoming assessments, Dean ignored their smirks and stares and approached the bar. An older man looked up.

“Evening,” Dean greeted, putting on his most winning smile. He needed information and was willing to kiss some ass to get it. “I’ll have a glass of your best bourbon.”

The bartender nodded. “Got Weller 12 year. That work?”

Dean smiled and took a seat on a stool. “Sure.”

The bartender leaned down and plucked a squat bottle from a glass cabinet. He placed a tumbler in front of Dean and poured out a generous serving. Dean eagerly picked up the cool glass and brought it to his lips and drank, relishing the slight vanilla notes and rich caramel. After notes of toffee lingered on his tongue.

“Holy shit, it tastes like candy. That is awesome!” Dean exclaimed, taking another sip and holding it in his mouth to enjoy the taste.

“It better be, for 22 dollars a pour.”

Dean fought his body’s urge to spray the precious liquid over the man opposite him. Instead, he managed to snort some of the Weller into his nose, where it made its burning presence vigorously known.

The older man chuckled. “Little rich for your taste?”

Dean collected himself and focused on ignoring the painful sensation percolating through his sinuses. “A bit, but damn, that’s worth it.” He finished it and set the glass down. “I’ll have another pour.”

The bartender raised his eyebrows but complied. “What’s the occasion?”

“Family reunion,” Dean answered vaguely.

The man looked around the nearly empty bar. “Where’s everyone else, then?”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me with that.” Dean reached into his pocket as he was met with a confused look. He found a somewhat recent picture of Sam and himself that Bobby had taken. He slid it over to the bartender. “Last I heard, my brother was working here. Do you recognize this long-haired hippie?”

The man took the photo into his hand and held it up to his face to see in the dim light. “Oh, yeah, that’s Keith. He started a few weeks ago. He hasn’t shown up for work in a week, though.”

Dean felt a cold knot of worry pierce through the bourbon-induced warmth in his stomach. Sam wouldn’t just leave a job without telling his employer. He was too responsible for that. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him for a week, hence why I’m here. Would anyone know where he might have gone?”

“Maybe Lindsey, but she stopped coming to work same time he did. Two of my best employees, too.” He shrugged. “Maybe they ran off together. She seemed rather sweet on him.”

Dean almost snorted at the thought of Sam running off with a girl. He would never do tha — His train of thought derailed abruptly as he considered the circumstances surrounding Lucifer’s release from Hell. Sam _had_ run off with Ruby and by doing so, he had started the Apocalypse. Dean had done the right thing and offered forgiveness but Sam had still forsaken him. Dean disengaged himself from the memories, knowing they would only lead to anger.

“Do you have his address?”

The man’s nostrils flared as he considered Dean’s request. “Normally, I wouldn’t give out that kind of information, but he seems like a good kid and I want to know that he’s okay. Lemme go check my records.”

Dean tried to concentrate on the enchanting aroma of the bourbon and not the way his mind was inventing a thousand scenarios to explain Sam’s sudden disappearance. He fought the rising tide of anxiety by quickly sipping his glass until the man returned with a post-it note.

“Here ya go. Hope you find him.”

“Thanks,” Dean murmured. He drained the tumbler and put a $50 bill on the counter. He picked up the post-it note and swiveled off the barstool.

A few minutes of driving brought him to where Sam was staying. Part of him prayed Sam was just passed out in bed with a nasty flu. He knew that wouldn’t be the case, their luck never worked that way, but a man could hope. He knocked on the door but received no answer. A few seconds with his lock pick granted him access. The room was immaculate, as if no was living there. Dean closed the door and poked around the room. All the drawers were empty and there was nothing in the trash cans. Nothing to give him a clue as to where Sam had gone or what had happened to him.

He pulled out his phone to call Bobby for guidance when another thought struck him. He could try to track Sam’s phone. He dialed their cell phone provider and invented a story to get the information he needed.

“Hi there, my little brother ran off because he was mad we wouldn’t get him the puppy he wanted. He has special needs and really shouldn’t be left alone too long. I’m pretty sure he had his cell phone with him. Do you think you could tell me where he was last?”

“Oh, poor thing,” the operator answered. After collecting some information from Dean, she found Sam’s records. “My records here say his phone last pinged a cell phone tower on the southeast side of Lamont.”

“I’m in Garber, OK, how far away is that?”

“About 18 miles.”

“Can you tell me when that was?”

“Looks like it was exactly a week ago.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “Alright, thank you so much for your help.”

“No problem. Hope you find your brother.”

Dean hung up the phone and practically ran to the Impala. He screeched out of the parking lot and up the highway to Lamont. Figuring Sam might need gas wherever he was going, he pulled into the first gas station he saw, a G & S General Store. He hurried in and approached the young woman sitting by the cash register.

“Hi, there. Were you working this shift a week ago?”

The woman gave him a suspicious look and retreated from him slightly.

Dean held his hands up to signal he was not a threat. “Sorry, I don’t mean to come across as a creeper. It’s just I’m looking for my brother and I was told he came through here a week ago. Maybe you remember him?” He gave an innocent smile and reached for his wallet. He pulled out the same picture as earlier and showed it to the cashier.

“Oh yeah, I remember him. He seemed really out of it.”

“What do you mean?” _Dammit, is Sam drinking the demon blood again?_ Dean thought with consternation.

“That late at night, you get a lot of weirdos coming in… But he wasn’t like that. He just seemed real upset. He looked like he was gonna get coffee then kind of fell over. Thought maybe he was a diabetic like my gran and he was in shock or something. I called out to him and he looked at me all scared-like and got up and ran out. Felt bad for him.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

“Yeah, he went left back into town. Was driving an old beater, if that helps any.”

Dean smiled at her. “It does. Thanks so much.”

“Good luck,” she murmured as he left the store.

Dean headed east on Route 60, the only highway out of east Lamont, following the trail indicated by the cell phone company. If Sam’s last known location was from out here somewhere, he’d either turned off his phone along the highway, thrown his phone out the window, lost battery and never charged it, or something had happened such that his phone was destroyed. None of those options sounded great to Dean, but it could get him a step closer to Sam.

He turned his high beams on and hunted for anything that could be a clue. Signs of a crash, an abandoned building, anything. Mile after mile of nothingness passed him by. Alone on the highway, his thoughts began to wander to Sam. What the hell was up with his brother? Best case scenario, Sam was being a dick. Worst case scenario, Sam was in trouble or dead. He shook his head. He’d know somehow if Sam was dead. He’d just _know_.

He was so distracted by his thoughts he almost missed the shiny glint from amongst a grove of trees. He slowed down and turned around, pulling off to the side of the road. He went to the trunk and grabbed a flashlight. He took his 1911 out of his belt and held it up as he approached the unknown object. As he got closer, he realized it was a piece of junk car that had been covered with branches to hide it. The storm that had slowed him down in Kansas must have blown some of the sticks away to reveal the shiny back bumper which had caught his eye. He tucked his gun back in his jeans and pulled more branches out of the way. He peered into the window and saw what looked like Sam’s phone lying on the driver’s seat. Dean felt for the door handle and was dismayed to find the door unlocked. Pulling it open, he picked up the phone and examined it. The screen was smashed and the rest of the phone wasn’t in much better condition. It wouldn’t even power on. Dean slid into the seat and looked around. The seat was far back enough that only his gargantuan brother could have been driving it. Tilting his head, he saw the key was still in the ignition. _That’s weird…_ Clambering over the seats, he searched underneath but found no incriminating evidence. He extruded himself and was about to shut the door when the beam of light caught a strand of hair peeking out from the headrest. He sealed his fingers around it and pulled. The color and length told him it was from either a woman or his missing brother. The warmth of the alcohol in his system did nothing to ease the chilled fear coiling around his nerves.

* * *

Dean cradled the busted phone in his hands as he waited for the cell phone store to open at 9 am. His next best move was to pull the last messages from Sam’s phone to see if that provided any clues. His 45 minute drive to Enid had left him with several hours to kill before he could take a peek into Sam’s private life. He spent the time trying to sleep in the car but Baby’s usually good-enough-for-snoozing seats were oddly uncomfortable. As soon as the sun rose, he considered getting some food but his stomach rejected the idea, signaling its discontent with a few flips. Instead he passed the time by listening to the radio and absently flicking through a Busty Asian Beauties magazine.

When an employee finally approached, Dean watched him like prey, his tensed muscles buzzing with energy. The moment the store lights turned on, Dean was out of the car and into the store. The attendant was surprised but regained his composure quickly.

“Hello, sir, how can I help you today?”

“Yeah, I accidentally stepped on my phone last night. Hoping I can get all the contacts, texts, and messages transferred over to a new phone.”

The man nodded. “As long as the chip is intact, that shouldn’t be a problem. Can I see it?”

Dean dug it out of his pocket and reluctantly handed it over, hesitant to part with his only connection to Sam.

“Wow, you really did a number on it.”

Dean applied a sheepish smile. “Yeah, was a crazy night last night. Lots of booze,” he lied.

“Gotcha,” the man answered and took the phone into the back.

Dean waited a few minutes in anxious silence until the man came back around looking pleased with himself. “I was able to recover everything. Do you want the same phone?” Dean nodded. “Okay, it will take a bit for the battery to charge enough so that I can transfer your information.”

Dean suppressed a sigh. More waiting. “That’s fine.”

After twenty minutes, the man returned and handed Dean the new phone and all the packaging. “It doesn’t have a ton of battery, but enough to hold you over I think.”

Dean handed over the couple hundred bucks to pay for the new phone and silently thanked Bobby for his generosity. He went back to Baby and peered at the little device, hoping its secrets would lead him to Sam.

He opened Sam’s text messages and found Lindsey’s name at the top of the list. He smiled to himself a bit. At least Sam had managed to get a girl’s number! But the texts held nothing useful or eyebrow-raising. Mostly just arranging shift changes or Sam asking about work-related things. Lindsey seemed pretty insistent on taking Sam out to dinner, an offer Sam refused with various excuses. There was nothing to suggest the two were madly in love and had run away. Dean was almost a little disappointed. That would have been a nice change of pace!

He dialed the number and prayed the woman would pick up and share some critical piece of information that would reunite him with Sam. To his frustration, it went directly to voicemail. _“Hi, you’ve reached Lindsey. I can’t make it to the phone right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”_

“Hey Lindsey, this is Dean Winchester, S—” he stopped himself, recalling Sam using the alias ‘Keith.’ “—Keith’s brother. I haven’t heard from him in a while and was hoping you might know where he is. Give me a call back whenever you can. Thanks.”

The rest of his texts were uninteresting as they were ones Dean remembered from his time with Sam. He scrolled through and looked for a thread with Ruby but Sam must have deleted it. Checking his phone log also revealed nothing enlightening. The last two calls were to Bobby and himself a week ago. Dean didn’t recognize the previous numbers but they had Oklahoma area codes and were probably related to Sam getting a job and housing. Not a single thing to explain why Sam had apparently disappeared from the sleepy little town, ditching his car in the woods as he did so.

Sighing, Dean dialed the voicemail number. _“14 new messages. One saved message. Press 1 to listen to the first new message. Press—”_ Dean pressed 1 and put the phone back to his ear. All the new messages were from Dean or Bobby asking how Sam was doing or where was he or seriously, Sam, please pick up the goddamn phone, I’m begging you. “ _End of new messages. One saved message. Press 1 to listen—_ ” Dean pressed 1, curious what Sam would have saved.

 _“One saved message from 8:17 pm May 14, 2009.”_ It took Dean a moment to recognize the date: the day before Sam killed Lilith and accidentally broke Lucifer out of his cage. When Dean had called him from the green room. Why would Sam save that message? Maybe to remind himself that Dean had forgiven him?

Drawn from his thoughts by the gruff voice assailing his ear, he was in no way prepared for the harsh venom his own voice was spewing. _“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam – a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.”_ Dean nearly dropped the phone in shock, loathe to touch the angry little device. _“End of message. Press 2 to replay this message. Press 7 to delete this message. Press 9 to save this message.”_

Dean had a visceral urge to mash the 7 button but refrained. What the _fuck_ was that?! That wasn’t the message he had left! Not even close! What could have changed it?! He thought for a moment before that smug voice bubbled up: _“Sam has a part to play. A very important part. He may need a little nudging in the right direction, but I’ll make sure he plays it.”_ Dean had never found out what that meant but he’d bet anything that this was what Zachariah had done, how he had ‘nudged’ Sam.

How could Sam even believe that message had come from Dean?! That message straight up told Sam that Dean would kill him whenever they next met. Dean could never do that. Surely Sam knew that? Just as he knew everything else in the message was false too?

The phone repeated its command options and Dean pressed 2 to hear it again. _“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak.”_ Right from the start, Zachariah-Dean was getting under Sam’s skin with one of his most hated words. Sam couldn’t stand to be called ‘freak.’ There were enough bullies and black eyes associated with that word to fill a stadium. Dean had done his best to protect his little brother both back in school and more recently.

It burned Dean to even think about it, but Gordon’s convictions about Sam had been right. Gordon had predicted it, that ‘one day he's going to be a monster.’ Maybe he should have taken the hunter more seriously, though really, what could Dean have done to prevent the situation? The only thing he really had control over was not making the demon deal that resurrected Sam. That was all on Dean, not Sam. He hadn’t asked to be brought back. Anything Sam had done since then was to either try to fight his destiny or avenge Dean, however perverted Sam’s methods of doing so had been.

“ _Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you.”_ _Gee, following up ‘freak’ with any mention of Dad was a sure way to get Sam’s blood to boil_ , Dean thought bitterly.

“ _Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you.”_ There it was, as good a death threat as any. When Dean called for your head, there was no escaping that. No wonder Sam had seemed so jumpy and anxious around Dean lately… He was constantly waiting for Dean to kill him!

 _“You're a monster, Sam – a vampire. You're not you anymore.”_ Dean shied away from the words, wishing he could repudiate them with every ounce of love in his heart. But under the duress of extreme emotions and pressure, he had crossed the line and said what was sure to alienate the two brothers. _“Because it’s not something that you’re doing, it’s what you are… It means… It means you’re a monster.”_ Not that Sam hadn’t made his own unfair contributions to that spectacular fight, but Dean had thrown the insult out in an attempt to halt Sam, to make him see how far he’d fallen. Dean now realized what he had missed that night: Sam had already accepted his fate as a ‘monster’, believing he might be redeemed if he averted the Apocalypse. In a last ditch effort to stop Sam from leaving, Dean had repeated his father’s infamous words from the night Sam left for Stanford: _“You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”_ It was the nail in the coffin for Sam’s belief in his brother. He supposed he couldn’t fault Sam for accepting that message as truth after what Dean had actually said, but it still pained him regardless.

 _“And there's no going back.”_ The finality in Zachariah-Dean’s tone made him wince. Sam had been played, not just by Ruby, but by Zachariah too. Was it any surprise that he had been manipulated so easily with powers such as these working against him? The desire to absolve Sam of all responsibility was quickly marred by the memory of Sam’s face covered in blood. His emotions splintered and he felt himself impaled on the anguish swirling within him.

The robotic feminine voice drew his attention and he pressed 9 to save the message. Not because he wanted the vile thing around, but because he wanted to make sure he set the record straight with Sam, once he found him.

That thought refocused Dean’s attention. Something was definitely wrong but Dean wasn’t sure what to do next. He opened his phone and dialed the only person besides Sam that he trusted with his life. The call was answered after one ring.

“Bobby, we have a problem. I think Sam’s missing.” 


	12. Atrophy

The impatient rapping of fingers on a hard surface beckoned him from cozy darkness. He fought the opening of his eyes, unwilling to let the light shatter his peaceful oblivion. A soft mental tug drew his attention outside of himself. The increasingly familiar shimmer of panic that rippled inside him told him he was not alone. He pushed himself up off the carpeted floor and faced his unwanted companion, who was lounging in Bobby’s living room.

An ever so slight smile tucked up one corner of Lucifer’s lips as he drummed his fingers incessantly on a wooden armrest. His expression was a peculiar mix of curiosity and sympathy. The sharp blue of the devil’s eyes bore into Sam’s soul and he forced himself to look away, relieved when the physical discomfort constricting his chest eased.

“Sam,” Lucifer spoke quietly, gently, in a way that stoked fear in the human’s heart. “You know you can’t keep going on like this forever. And I can literally wait _forever_. Why are you doing this to yourself? You have to know it’s pointless.”

Sam flicked his gaze up towards the fallen angel but still could not bear his frigid stare. “Not pointless. As long as I say ‘no,’ it’s worth it.”

Lucifer sighed, his tone adopting that of a disappointed parent. “You speak as if you understand what will happen. You should know better than to be so arrogant. It has been your undoing before and it will lead you astray again.”

Now Sam met Lucifer’s gaze in an attempt to decipher his words. “What do you mean?”

The angel’s eyebrows scrunched with concern as he appraised Sam’s form. “It’s already starting to happen. Just look at yourself. Don’t need me to explain the obvious, do you?”

Sam snapped his head down to his body and was horrified by the sight filling his vision. Vicious fleshy holes riddled his body, a steady stream of blood seeping from each one and soaking into the rug, a soft glue sealing him to the floor. Even more disturbing were the miniscule bluish-white wisps of light drifting out of the gunshot wounds. The gently illuminated curls floated out into the air before dissipating into nothing.

“What is that?” Sam asked fearfully.

“Can’t you feel it? It’s your _soul_ , Sam.” Sam’s blood turned to ice as fear clawed into him. Lucifer leaned forward and a physical chill swept around the terrified human. “It’s giving up. Now, common belief is that the human soul can never be broken, but no one knows if a soul can die. Sure, souls can be mutilated into demons… I proved that.” Lucifer allowed an impish grin to cross his face before re-schooling his expression to one of concerned sympathy. “But for a soul to admit defeat and relinquish the will to keep existing… It’s never been observed… Until now, perhaps.” He raised an eyebrow at Sam, urging him to consider his explanation for the unsettling changes both were observing. “And do you know what will happen once your soul withers away?”

Unkempt dread locked Sam’s throat and he found he could not respond, so he shook his head minutely.

Lucifer nodded graciously at the meek communication. “A body without a soul has no morals, no emotions, only physical sensation. How long do you think a body being tortured such as yours would hold out against the promise of release?”

Sam looked down, well-aware of the answer: not long.

“What’s worse, is once your soul fades away, there will be no Paradise for you. You won’t join your parents, Jess, or Dean in Heaven. You will rob them of eternity with you, instead forcing them to mourn your unnecessary sacrifice. The result will be the same for me, I will have my vessel, but you will have forsaken all that you love. Don’t reject this gift, Sam. Say ‘yes’ to me now, before it’s too late.”

Tears tracked down his face as he considered the impossible situation before him. If Lucifer was right, which was not a given, he was running out of time. If Lucifer was telling the truth, he would get his way whether Sam benefited from it or not. In some ways though, Sam wasn’t sure he even wanted Paradise. For starters, he didn’t deserve it. And if he were to be honest with himself, the idea of ceasing to exist was far more attractive than he would ever admit. If Lucifer were to claim him as a vessel then, at least he wouldn’t be around to feel it and drown in the unforgiving shame that currently lashed his psyche.

A smile grew on Sam’s face as he came to a decision. Instead of scaring him into saying ‘yes’ as Lucifer had hoped, his actions had instead reinforced Sam’s commitment to say ‘no’ until the very end, even if that meant there was nothing left to say ‘no.’

Sam returned his gaze to Lucifer’s and held his smile. “My answer, now and forever, is ‘no.’ I don’t care if I am erased from the universe in the process, but I’m not doing a damn thing you want. No.”

Lucifer smirked at him, no hint of surprise on his face. “I know you think you’re being selfless, Sam, but the level of hubris is almost mythic. How many people will have to suffer because of your stubborn will? How many more innocent children like Jesse have to die bloody because of your refusal to cooperate?”

Grief pierced his satisfaction and he curled in on himself a bit, the sorrow throbbing like a physical assault on his body. Pleading green eyes begged for salvation that wasn’t his to grant. _Dean._ He held on to the anchoring thought of his brother and dredged up the last of that stubborn Winchester will.

“But you want to kill all of them. Me giving in just dooms them faster.”

“Dooming them? You’d be dooming them to Paradise. When I win, I will have no need for Hell and its spawn. All souls will be sent to Heaven, looked after by angels for eternity. Why would you not want that? Why would you deny billions of people such a blissful utopia?”

Sam shook his head and forced his convulsing throat to still just enough to respond. “Why would I believe you? You’ll tell any lie to get me to say ‘yes.’”

Lucifer scoffed softly. “I told you before, I don’t need to lie. I haven’t told you a _single_ lie. Think about it. Have I mislead you in any way?”

Sam closed his eyes as he thought about it. He hated to admit it, but as far as he could tell, Lucifer had been truthful with him. “No,” he answered dejectedly.

“Exactly. Why would I start now? Sam, our relationship—” He paused as he saw Sam stiffen at those words. “The relationship between angel and vessel should be one of trust, of understanding. We were meant to be one.” Lucifer sounded wistful. “I’m trying to make this as easy as possible for you and yet you continue to refuse me.”

“Just, just leave me alone, please,” Sam begged, too many emotions fighting for control. “I can’t do this right now,” he cried, his voice cracking.

“Oh, Sam,” Lucifer sighed unhappily. In a swift motion, the archangel rose from his seat, strode over to Sam, and knelt by his hanging head. Lucifer’s cold hands clasped his cheeks and lifted Sam’s face to his. The disconcerting chill of Lucifer’s fingers cooled the angry burning of Sam’s skin, the memory of flames dancing him to his death still cruelly vivid. Sam opened his eyes, his confusion evident in his expression. The human was paralyzed with fear, his wide eyes staring into the blue depths which yearned to overtake him. Something flickered beneath the calm surface of the angel’s demeanor and Sam felt both intense curiosity and profound terror.

Lucifer blinked and it broke the near-mystical trance in which Sam had been trapped. He tried to push himself out of the devil’s grip but his efforts were fruitless. Lucifer held him tight, albeit gently. Expecting Lucifer’s anger to lash out, Sam was too shocked to register his disgust when cold lips met with his forehead for a brief second.

Lucifer withdrew his hands and Sam crumpled to the floor. “It hurts me to see you this way, Sam, but I’ll always be here waiting for you. I won’t give up on you.”

The strange, almost electric aura that energized Sam’s body whenever Lucifer was present faded. He didn’t even lift his head to check. He knew he was alone, as alone as he’d ever been in his life.

Lingering cold still clung to his cheeks and forehead, as if Lucifer’s touch was as reluctant to leave as the angel himself. The cold seemed to burrow down into him and nestle into his chest. He shivered and curled into a fetal position. As he thought about what he had just experienced, about all he had experienced, tears burst forth and he didn’t even try to rein them in. He let himself openly weep in the isolated landscape of his mind, well aware he would not be granted such a courtesy upon waking. He sobbed until exhaustion wracked his body and his weakened mind could sustain him no longer. Unconsciousness was a merciful nothing that welcomed him graciously into its hungry arms.


	13. Business

Dean immediately dialed Castiel after hanging up with Bobby. His concern had not been appeased by his conversation with Bobby, nor their plan to regroup at the older hunter’s home and find a way to locate his brother. Where the hell were they even going to start?! They had nothing! No leads!

“Hello, Dean,” the angel’s deep voice focused his attention.

“Hey, Cas, I’m sorry to call you so soon, but we got a problem. Sam’s missing.”

“He’s still not returning your calls?”

“It’s more than that. I tracked down where he was and found his car abandoned in the woods. His phone was there, smashed. It makes no sense for Sam to have done that himself, so I’m guessing it was someone else.”

"Could it have been demons?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I just know something is up. We need to find him. Can you sense him at all?”

“You know I cannot due to the warding on his ribs. He is hidden from me, as he is from all angels.”

“I know, I know, was worth a shot…” Dean paused, considering something. “Hey, are you able to find any human? Even if you don’t know them?”

“It takes much longer without a connection to their soul. Who did you have in mind?”

“There’s a woman that was working with Sam, Lindsey Kangas. She might be able to help us find him.”

“I will do my best to find her, Dean.”

“Thanks.”

“We will find him. Don’t worry.”

Dean suppressed a snort. “Yeah, I’ll try. Talk to you later, Cas.”

“Bye, Dean.”

The click of the phone left him feeling oddly isolated. He didn’t even want music, instead allowing his thoughts to wander to what had befallen his little brother. Knowing Sam, it was nothing good.

* * *

The sensation of wetness tracking down his face drew him from his slumber. He tried to move his arms to wipe it away but found himself restrained. As he opened his eyes, he realized it was tears that were dampening his skin. He saw he was not in the cage so he struggled to shift his body to take in his new surroundings and was met with an unfamiliar voice exclaiming “I’ll be damned!” Sam froze.

“Told you so,” Tim said proudly.

“But how?”

“Gordon Walker was right, he’s a monster. Lucifer won’t let him die, apparently.”

“I knew Kubrick was on to something. Fucking hell, man! We coulda killed him back before all of this! I can’t believe he started the Apocalypse.”

 _Gordon Walker. Kubrick. Oh God._ Anyone who knew both of them was sure to hate Sam with an intense passion. Like he needed another one of those people in his life. Before he had a chance to ponder the implication of his discovery further, firm hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to the middle of the room. Sam’s body was dropped without care, the chain connecting his cuffed hands to his cuffed ankles tightening and biting into his flesh. He looked up into the reddened face of Kubrick’s partner.

“Little Sammy Winchester. All alone. Where’s big brother, huh?” Sam averted his gaze, not wishing to think of Dean now, not wanting to think of how they had been back then and how much had gone wrong in the past few years. “Not coming to save ya this time?”

“Far as we can tell, Dean likely hates his guts. How could a hunter like him tolerate having a demonic vampire for a brother?” Reggie offered.

Sam’s cheeks flushed with shame as the voicemail once again assaulted his memory. “ _You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”_

“I know I sure as hell wouldn’t.” Creedy crouched down low and roughly gripped Sam’s face, pulling his head up at an awkward angle. “In fact, I’d kill ya right goddam now if I could. You’re the reason Kubrick is dead! He and Gordon got so mixed up in it hunting your psychic freak ass! He thought killing you was a mission from God! And when Gordon turned, he killed Kubrick. He’d never have been so involved if it weren’t for you!” He shoved Sam’s head down into the tile and smiled at the surprised yelp of pain that left Sam’s mouth. Creedy began kicking him, angrily shouting “You’ve ruined everything, you worthless son of a bitch!” Blood began leaking from the minimally-healed bullet wounds that riddled Sam’s body.

A well-placed boot met with an unlucky rib and an audible snap could be heard over Sam’s whimpers. Panic flashed over him as he remembered how important his ribs were. “The… ward… ing…” Sam gasped.

“What about it?” Reggie asked urgently, suddenly concerned.

“Bro-ken… rib… means… bro… ken… ward… Luci… fer…”

“Shit!” Reggie exclaimed. “What should we do?”

“Easiest way might be to kill him,” Tim suggested calmly.

“Gladly!”

Neither Tim nor Reggie could protest before Creedy withdrew his Luger and shot Sam in the head point blank. Blood and bits of tissue misted his jeans and he couldn’t hold back his triumphant laugh.

“And you’re saying I can do that again in a few hours?”

Tim nodded.

Creedy’s face lit in a sly smile. “Well, do I have an idea for you...”

* * *

Dean was just outside of Omaha when his phone rang. Digging it out of his pocket, he saw it was Castiel. He furrowed his brow in confusion. Could he really have found Lindsey that fast?

“Hey, Cas, did you already find her?”

“No. I was calling about another matter.” Dean frowned in disappointment. There was an awkward pause as he waited for the angel to continue.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh. I wanted to let you know that right now, for a few seconds, I felt Sam.”

“Felt him? Felt him how?” _Ugh, that sounds wrong,_ Dean thought, twisting his face with disgust.

“I’m not sure. It seems some of his warding was inactivated and I was able to sense a glimpse of his soul.”

“Enough to track him?”

He could picture the angel shaking his head as he answered. “Sadly, no. Just enough to get a read on what he’s experiencing.”

“And?”

“It’s not good, Dean.”

Dean’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “What do you mean? Is he drinking demon blood again?”

“I don’t think so, but—”

“Thank God.” Relief swarmed Dean’s heart. He wasn’t sure he could handle a renewed devotion to demon blood.

“You didn’t let me finish. His body is in excruciating pain and his soul is shrouded in fear. Whatever’s happening, it is putting tremendous strain on him. His will is weakening.”

The ache that had been living in Dean’s chest for the past few days traveled to his throat and threatened to strangle him. “What?” Dean whispered.

“I said his body is in—”

“I heard what you said, I just, I don’t… What’s happening to him?”

“I can’t be sure. Like I mentioned, only _some_ of the warding was inactivated and—”

“What would do that? Inactivate the warding?”

“Could be magic, another angel, or some physical trauma to the ribs. Broken rib is the most likely scenario.”

Dean winced as he felt a phantom flash of searing pain in his ribcage. He’d broken ribs before. He knew how much that hurt! “Then why did you only feel it for such a short time?”

Castiel was quiet for a few moments. “There are a few reasons I can think of. He could have been healed, the warding could have been restored, he could have been warded another way, or, uh…”

“Or what?” Dean could sense Cas’s hesitation but he had to hear it.

“Or he could have died.”

“No,” Dean replied quickly. “We’d know. We’d know if he died.” He shook his head, denial winning out over the hoard of emotions marching through his heart.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Castiel conceded. “The angels would sense it, too.”

Dean swallowed against the agony straining his vocal cords. “Good.” At least Sam wasn’t dead. But he was suffering. A lot. “So, what do we do now?”

Castiel sighed. “I will resume my search for Lindsey. I assume you are going to Bobby’s?”

“Yeah, I’m a few hours away.”

“Bobby is very resourceful. He will have ideas.”

“He better.”

“I’ll be in touch, Dean. Travel safely. You can’t help Sam if you’re dead.”

“Okay, mom,” he replied sarcastically.

“I am not your mother!”

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the angel. He may have been observing humans for millennia, but he still had a lot to learn about his charges.

“Never mind, Cas. Bye.”

He hung up and threw the phone in the passenger seat. He pushed his foot down on the gas pedal, not out of spite or rebellion, but out of relentless concern for his brother.

* * *

The unwelcomed presence of sensation made itself known as cold hands pressed against his face and his chest. Tingling warmth lanced the spreading coolness and he greeted the soothing strums of energy lapping at his wounds. Wait, his wounds… His wounds were fatal! His eyes sprung open and Lucifer’s crouched body filled his vision, his arms spread to touch both of Sam’s most recent severe injuries simultaneously. Sam tried to recoil but he couldn’t move. He looked Lucifer in the eyes and Sam could have sworn they were glowing. Lucifer merely smiled serenely before glancing at the wounds. Sam got the message: stop struggling so I can heal you. Sam calmed slightly and looked around him, surprised to see he was in the cabin where the hunters had killed him.

 _Is Lucifer actually with me right now?!_ Sam thought with panic. _No, Lucifer would just take me. This is still in my head, it has to be._ As he turned back to the angel healing him, Sam’s peripheral vision was filled with a golden aura of radiance. The light clung to Lucifer, no, _Lucifer was its source_. It was not something he had noticed before and it startled him. Lucifer raised an eyebrow at Sam’s rapidly changing emotions, but continued channeling his grace into the broken human. Sam watched as light spread throughout his chest. In a way he had never experienced before, he felt the archangel’s grace sifting through his cells, searching out serious injuries. It made him both curious and terrified. Though there was no pain, Sam still felt discomfort as the grace curled around the broken rib to slide it back into place and knit the bone together. The auroral gleam of light around Lucifer was suddenly no longer visible, though Sam could still see a faint pulsing illumination under his skin.

Lucifer withdrew his grace quickly, leaving a faint emptiness within Sam, and pulled his hands back with a wistful sigh. He released his hold on Sam and gave him a pointed look, his expression that of someone waiting for, but not expecting to receive, an obvious “thank you.” Sam was too concentrated on making sense of what had happened to pay his healer any attention. What the hell had just happened? Why did this feel so much different than the other times? Sam didn’t get much more time to think on it, because Lucifer snapped his fingers and Sam was jolted back into the world of the living.

* * *

Sam woke with a start, his body exactly where he remembered himself dying, still curled in a fetal position. The blood on his hands and pooled by his head was still warm. He thought it usually took longer than that to recover, but perhaps the broken warding allowed Lucifer to heal him more quickly. _The warding… That must be it! Could I see his grace because the warding was weakened?!_ The idea chilled his body. Lucifer may have been closer to reaching him than ever before. His life now was hell, but he knew it would only get worse if he were at the archangel’s mercy. Voices reached his awareness and he concentrated on them, hoping to learn as much as possible before they realized he had been resurrected.

“—he can’t die, he’s damn valuable.”

“Look, I get it, and I think using him to kill demons and stuff is commendable. But I’m askin’ ya to look at the bigger picture. You’re not always gonna be hunting. And the hunting life doesn’t come cheap. I’m sure you don’t have tons of extra cash right now, right?” Two grunts indicated the affirmative. “Well, you got a cash cow right here! You know how many people would love to beat the shit out of Sam Winchester?! And hey, maybe ya let them have a few kicks and punches for free, but if they really wanna hurt him, if they want to kill him, they gotta pay.”

“I dunno… I think it could be a lot of risk for not a whole lot of reward.” Tim sounded unconvinced.

“C’mon, at least give it a shot. I got a few people in town who are huntin’ a wraith. Lemme call them up and see if they’d be interested. I’m betting they will.”

A few moments of silence lingered and then Tim huffed “fine.”

“What about warding him further? If he’s gonna be in a lot more pain, we don’t need Lucifer whispering in his ear,” Reggie challenged.

Creedy scoffed. “I’m well aware that’s why ya called me. I got all Kubrick’s angel lore in the trunk. Was hoping all that weird-ass religious shit would come in useful someday. I’ll go get it now.”

He left and the remaining two hunters started chatting excitedly, this new prospect piquing their interest.

Their words became white noise as Sam processed what he had just heard. Did people really hate him that much? Was he that much of a pariah in the hunting community? Hunters generally treated his father with respect and that often extended to himself and Dean. Maybe word had spread about the catastrophic result of killing Lilith. Or perhaps it went back even further: Gordon may have told others about his beliefs. He’d told Kubrick, so why not others? A sickening surge of cold swept through him as he thought about Gordon. He was loathe to admit it, but the damn psycho had been right. Sam _was_ evil, he was a monster, and now he’d ended the world. If only he could go back now and let Gordon kill him so Dean wouldn’t have to! It could have spared Dean going to Hell and breaking the first seal. If he had just died like he was supposed to, the world wouldn’t be in the mess it was now. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense that other hunters would revile him. He’d been a psychic, he drank demon blood and gained supernatural powers from it, and he was the meatsuit to the greatest evil known to man. Even he would probably want to eliminate a being with such a resume!

He hated himself intensely and the cruel thought formed that whatever happened to him from here on out, he deserved it. It was just a matter of convincing himself.

Footsteps approached and he held himself still, hoping to avoid further antagonism. Life would never be that easy, he sighed internally, as two fingers felt for his pulse. “Good morning to you, sunshine,” Tim teased. Sam rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up but Tim put his boot on Sam’s back and pushed, dropping him to the floor. Tim and Reggie flipped him over and pulled Sam’s arms up over his head, clipping him onto a chain that hung from a pulley on the ceiling. His ankle cuffs were connected to a chain secured around a heating pipe in the corner of the room. They left him hanging at an awkward height: too high to kneel but too low to stand since he couldn’t move his ankles any closer to his body. As such, the majority of his weight was borne by his wrists and as the men sat at a kitchen table to look at some books, Sam focused on suppressing the whimper, and then the scream, that begged to erupt from his body. The healing bullet holes began weeping again and his no-longer-broken-but-very-much-painful rib was making its presence known with insufferable pangs of searing heat that stretched from his abdomen to his neck.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty – Sam wasn’t even sure anymore, too consumed with acute and diffuse agony to accurately keep track. Words and phrases occasionally reached him, though the hunters were conferring rather quietly. “Kubrick really liked angels, huh?” “Effective warding…” “This one wards against the call but not the scrutiny of an angel. The hell does that mean?” “Carve or burn?” “Both.”

The words faded away as Sam focused on keeping his vocal cords still. He didn’t want these psychos to have the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He knew it was stupid and pointless, but it was the only thing he had.

His attention was divided by scuffing boots and he raised his head as the men came up to him. Creedy held a book and few loose sheets of paper, Reggie held a blow torch, and Tim held a thick-bladed knife and some metal wiring. Fear constricted his chest as he realized what was about to happen.

“You don’t need to do this, please! The wardings I have now are effective enough. Lucifer can’t find me, he’s said so himself!” Sam begged. Based on his experience earlier, he recognized he might be lying but the hunters didn’t know any better.

Tim smiled as he moved into Sam’s space. “Sorry, Sammy, we just can’t take that risk. Not with what we have planned.”

Creedy nodded in agreement. “With what you’re gonna go through, hell, I’d be tempted to lobotomize ya.” Sam couldn’t do anything but stare with a dumbfounded expression on his face. “But, don’t wanna mess with your freaky powers. Tim wouldn’t like that. So instead, we’re just gonna ward the shit out of ya.”

“A little extra can’t hurt, right?” Reggie added.

Tim reached forward and grabbed the t-shirt they had given Sam. He cut through the hem and then sliced up the cloth and through the collar. He cut through the sleeves and let the shirt fall to the ground. Goosebumps pricked Sam’s skin as he shivered from both the cool air and from fear.

Creedy gave Sam an appraising look and whistled. “Damn, someone works out. Ya know, there’s another group of people who might enjoy renting Sam…”

Reggie and Tim both looked to Creedy in disgust. "That's revolting. Uh-uh," Tim replied quickly.

Creedy gave an apologetic shrug. “What, just trying to expand the business opportunities here. C’mon, picture it, you can make actual snuff films with him and not be down an actor!”

“Ugh, shut up, man,” Reggie reiterated.

“Fine, then. Let’s get on with it.”

Sam let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The knife and blowtorch suddenly didn’t seem quite so terrifying.

Creedy sidled up to Tim and held one of the sheets up. Tim beckoned Reggie over and motioned to the torch. Sam flinched as the bright, angry roar of the blow torch invaded his senses. Tim placed the oddly curled wire in the flame and studied the design as the metal became white hot. Once it was glowing, Reggie set down the torch and stood behind Sam, gripping his hips so Sam couldn’t try to buck away. Though Reggie’s hold was tight, it didn’t stop Sam from trying to escape the searing presence that joined itself with the skin over his sternum. He gasped to distract himself from the intense pain and immediately regretted it. The smell of burning flesh become overwhelming and Sam felt acidic bile churn up his throat. Tim waited until the metal was cool to the touch before abruptly yanking it out. The burnt skin reluctantly let go with a quiet _squick_ and Sam threw his head back to howl in misery before letting it fall idly against his chest. 

Tim spent a few minutes reshaping the metal into a pattern that matched the second sheet and began to reheat it.

“Please,” Sam whined, his voice breaking.

Tim shook his head. “There are consequences for getting in bed with evil. As a hunter, you should know that!”

“‘S not that simple,” Sam provided feebly.

“I know you have your reasons and all, but they don’t matter to me. They’re not good enough. Considering what you’ve done, what you caused? Nothing is fucking good enough!” He punctuated that statement by thrusting the metal into Sam’s chest, connecting with where the previous one had ended. Sam yelped in pain but bit his lip, still unwilling to show his weakness.

The process was repeated two more times until the design went from the top of his sternum down to his navel. Reggie released his grip and stepped back.

“First one’s done!” Creedy said cheerily and Sam looked up in horror.

“H-how many are there?” he asked.

“Wait and see,” Tim offered before going behind Sam. “Need the blowtorch, Reg.”

Somehow, it was worse not knowing what was coming and it made Sam antsy on top of everything else. The anxiety of ignorance was short lived: without warning, with the blow torch still on, sharp, fiery pain erupted from his shoulder blade as the tip of the knife pierced the skin and muscle to scrape the bone during its diagonal journey down to his spine.

Sam couldn’t suppress the scream that clawed its way out of his throat as his flesh was torn then instantly cauterized. He didn’t even have a second to appreciate the scathing, insidious pain because Tim was drawing the same line on his right shoulder.

Violent, angry agony coruscated up and down his body. Thick swells of bodily screams rose from every abused nerve. He searched for oblivion, for merciful unconsciousness, but he found no sanctuary in his quaking psyche.

Mentally distracted as he was, he was caught off guard when hands began pushing down his sweat pants. Unable to process what was happening except for _BAD!_ , his panic became visceral and he started to thrash in his restraints. In an instant, hands, so many hands, were on him, pressing, squeezing, restraining. Their shouts and his cries fused into an oppressive ringing that he could not escape. Pressure on his shoulders and his hips held him in place. More skin was revealed as the fabric was lowered, stopping just shy of exposing his dignity. A hand moved up against his neck, moving his hair out of the way. He felt the tip of the knife enter right below his hairline then felt every dreaded millimeter as it left its savage signature all the way down to the start of his ass. He felt the heat of the blow torch again, then three diagonal lines across the vertical mark on his lower back, followed by a slightly lopsided circle connecting the three lines after Tim reheated the knife. A short horizontal line on the base of his neck and a small downward facing curve on the top of the vertical line completed the rune.

Sam was left panting and shaking with sweat pouring off his skin. He was delirious now, the panic and the physical suffering plunging him into hysteria.

“Few more, Sammy-boy!” a voice jeered and all he could say was “no.” Over and over, it was the only word he could muster.

A body pressed up against his back and held him in a chokehold. The whir of the blow torch reached his ears again and then sensation like he’d never experienced before assaulted his body. The glowing flame licked at the skin over his heart and he screamed so hard he felt blood vessels burst in his eyes. It was over quickly but the mind-fraying pain battered him ruthlessly. The arm fell away, his head hung limply, then someone lifted it up. Sam’s hazy vision could barely make out lips moving but his senses were too tangled to understand any of the stimuli vying for his attention.

A new blast of pain emanated from his chest and he wasn’t sure if it was his heart giving out or some fresh life-ending injury. Either way, he didn’t care. All that mattered now was the brief, gentle balm of nothingness.


	14. Showtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Drug use. And general weirdness.

Aggressive, stinging pain inundated his senses, preventing him from zeroing in on what exactly hurt. _Everything,_ his mind bluntly informed him. Clearly, he had been healed of his fatal injuries, but everything else hurt just as much as the initial affliction. Opening his eyes offered no clues. He was immersed in absolute darkness. He struggled to move and realized he was tied to a chair. He weakly attempted to wiggle out of his bindings but he knew it was useless. Between his unhealed wounds, the physical agony of hunger driving stakes into his stomach, the insidious tension of withdrawal stretching out his nerves, and the ever-strengthening grip of heartbreak crushing around his soul, he couldn’t bear to do anything but sit there in the dark, too dehydrated to spare the water for tears.

For what could have been minutes or hours, he sat in the pitch black, his mind becoming numb to the regrettable act of existing.

When he heard a distant door slide open, he nearly jumped out of his skin. A faint click resounded in the empty space around him and the annoying buzz of a fluorescent light filled his ears. It was tilted away from him and did little to illuminate his body, but he could see the silhouettes of bars against the minutely flickering light. The sound of scuffling footsteps became louder, and then the sound of some struggling, someone who had been gagged. A set of firm footsteps lead the other. The pair stopped to the left of Sam but he could not see anything to inform him as to their identity. The hair on the back of his neck sprung up but he had no time to ponder its significance; Tim’s loud voice was echoing through the room, followed by many footsteps.

“Yeah, I’m showing you right now. You’re all so impatient! Here, gather in front of me. What’s in there can’t get you, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Sam watched as Tim assembled at least seven people in front of him. By the looks of their clothes, they were hunters. Cold started to well up in his gut.

Tim puffed up his chest and raised his arms, clearly enjoying the attention. “As I’m sure many of you are aware, the Apocalypse is upon us. That’s not an exaggeration. Heaven and Hell are literally at war and humans are caught in the middle. How did this come about, you may ask? Why now? Well, let me introduce you the source of all our troubles… A hunter, no less, one of our own! Sam Winchester!”

He hit something with his boot and flicked the spotlight on, leaving Sam to blink stupidly at several horrified faces. One person gasped, another asked “What?!”

“I know, I know,” Tim continued. “Sammy Winchester. Renowned hunter, son of John Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester. Or so we’ve been lead to believe.” He scanned the gathered faces, trying to judge his audience. “I can see what you’re thinking, why do I have a hunter locked up in a cage? But he’s not just a hunter… He’s a monster. Sure, he _looks_ normal, but as I’ll show you, he is anything but!”

He looked to the side and nodded. Reggie opened the cage and pushed in a young redheaded woman, also in handcuffs. She looked to be about seventeen, with sassy bright lipstick which contrasted sharply with her pale, freckled skin.

The other hunters looked confused but Sam already knew what was happening. The intoxicating scent of her blood was igniting his hunger. He bit his lip to suppress the shudder that ached to roll through his body. Reggie stood behind Sam and cut the rope tying him to the chair. His first impulse was to spring up out of his seat but he held himself down, unwilling to move any closer to the demon.

“C’mon, Sammy, I know you want a taste. It’s been a couple of days, I’m sure you need it.”

“What’s going on?” a hunter questioned.

Tim looked to Reggie, who raised a small bucket over the girl’s head. As he tipped it over, the rising steam and the pained grunts revealed her to be a demon, and not just any demon. The cloud drifted away and blood red eyes stared out. The hunters took a step back, afraid. Despite himself, his heart rate accelerated and Sam stood up, foot poised to move closer. He fought his impulse and forced his body back into the chair. “No,” he whispered.

“No?” Tim repeated. “Maybe I just need to whet your appetite.” Tim looked back towards the hunters. “See, Sam likes to pretend he’s human, but one whiff and you’ll see what a beast he is.”

Tim tilted his head and Reggie got the message. He brought his knife up and quickly sliced a deep cut on the girl’s exposed upper arm. Reggie brought the blade over to Sam and walked around him, dangling the knife in his face. The scent was crisp and tantalizing, masking the rank body odor and palpable fear. Then elbows locked around his neck and the blade was pulled towards him, the blood smearing across his lips. Groans of disgust filled his ears but they were quickly drowned out by the furious tempo of his heart. His breathing sped up and he swallowed compulsively as he fought his bloodlust, which was making his feet itch and beg for movement. He stood up in an attempt to escape but he was warring to control the direction of his body. A push from behind propelled him forward and then he was braced against her, their heads inches apart. He was now practically panting over her, his lungs filling with her decadent aroma.

“Do you worst,” she growled through her gag and raised the injured shoulder towards him.

Unable to turn down his need or the challenge, he embraced the demon, her warm body pressing into his, and sealed his mouth around the cut. The demon moaned as he dragged his tongue against the pulsing heat. Tantric electricity spread from his mouth to his gut, to his fingertips and the balls of his feet, to right behind his eyeballs, and to his semi-hard length. He hastily sucked at the wound, eager to draw every drop from this luscious, egotistical bitch. In the back of his mind, something cried out, trying to warn him, but he ignored it, instead choosing to seize upon the singing energy pouring into his body. Greedily, he inhaled her blood, unable to deny that this was the best he had ever felt.

Vaguely, he heard a harsh voice and then the source of his ecstasy was being pulled away. He let out a growl as his hands scrambled for purchase but he was denied, strong hands holding him back. As her body slipped from his grasp and he stood tall, he was suddenly aware of all the eyes watching him, horror and revulsion painted on the faces he might once have considered allies. They didn’t seem real, but he couldn’t figure out why. He tilted his head as he observed them, absent-mindedly licking the residual blood off his lips.

“Pull her, freak,” Tim hissed and Sam spun to face him, his vision blurring slightly as the demon’s power flared through his body. _That’s never happened before…_ _Maybe because she’s a crossroads demon?_ he postulated before trying to focus. He blinked against the bright light, his brain slow to register the gun discretely pressed into his side. “Pull her now and I’ll let the meatsuit go,” Tim murmured.

“Why this time?” Sam asked, though his voice sounded oddly distant.

A sly smile spread on Tim’s face. “She taste a little different than usual?”

Sam’s face pinched in confusion. “Yeah, but she’s a crossroads de—”

“Yeah, a crossroads demon who’s been dosed with a special lil something I mixed up.” Tim raised a small vial of cloudy pale yellow liquid.

It required more energy than he thought necessary to move his eyes to the vial and back to Tim. “What is that?” His voice sounded even farther away.

“Little bit of this, little bit of that. Mostly heroin and meth, little bit of coke, LSD, some ketamine, whatever we could get our hands on, really. Means she won’t remember a thing. As for you… thought it would be a fun experiment.”

“You… you drugged me?” he gasped, his heart starting to beat too fast. He tried to step back but he couldn’t find his feet. Could you lose your feet? Was that a thing?

“Drugged _her_ , but, seeing as you had a nice, deep drink… I’m guessing you’re starting to feel it by now. It’s for a good cause. Can’t have you hurting the customers, right? Now, you’re wasting time. We have Narcan and fluids but we gotta give it to her soon or else she’s toast. Pull the fucking demon, freak.”

The words slowly percolated into Sam’s brain and he wanted to resist on principle, but he knew he had to comply. He gathered his will and turned his body to the young woman. Reggie stood behind her, holding her up.

Sam told his arm to raise and he swore he could feel the neural impulse go from his brain, down his spine, through the efferent motor neurons to the neuromuscular junctions, and finally to his individual muscle fibers. The spark of energy jolted his arm up. He dragged his eyes to the demon, his teeth toying with his lip. God, he would do anything for another taste of her delicio—no! He had to exorcise the demon and save the girl!

He put weights on his eyelids and darkness swept across his consciousness as he fixated on the mutinous force writhing around his soul. He plunged his ego into its fiery abyss and a scream fled his throat as his gift suddenly expanded beyond his control and flew out his fingertips.

He opened his eyes in time to see the demon’s eyes flash red before the light above him exploded. Pieces of glass rained down like angry butterflies, suddenly illuminated by several flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like roving spotlights. His usually focused energy started to splinter, wisps of black smoke pulling along spears of radiant bluish light from the vessel’s body. This was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He imagined a door slamming shut and was able to withdraw his powers.

The demon looked up at him, red eyes caught in a bright beam. “Out of your league, huh, Sammy?” the demon taunted, even though she seemed to be barely holding on.

“Time’s a-wasting,” Tim added.

Pressure inundated his mind, like leaden blankets pushing him underwater. Unwilling to drown, not here, not now, he forced his hand up again. He closed his eyes as he called upon the molten presence residing deep in his being and braced himself for its steep ascent. However, to his shock and horror, bright sprays of lava burst forth and splashed themselves across his soul, igniting a thousand tiny fires.

Laughter, he could hear laughter, distorted, mocking, loud, right in his head, echoing between his ears. Laughing, she was laughing at him, laughing because he was weak, because he was a failure. He opened his eyes to glare at her and all he could see was a blonde with big eyes and a pretty mouth in a white dress – _“You turned yourself into a freak, a monster, and now you’re not gonna bite? I’m sorry, but that is honestly adorable.”_

_NO!_ his mind screamed, _No, it wasn’t for nothing! I turned myself into a monster to save the world but they tricked me! They lied, they all lied!_

His anger and betrayal fanned the flames like a burst of pure oxygen. He channeled the explosion towards the offensive demon and grinned as the smoke began to gather in her body, preparing to escape. He pushed himself further, determined to banish this stain forever. Her chest heaved with unnatural light, bringing her closer to his outstretched arm. Whether she fell towards him or he stepped forward to her, the result was the same: his large hand closed around her pale neck and _fuck,_ did it feel good! Warm, pulsing flesh vibrating with energy. Light streamed out of those too-big eyes and he knew she was finished, and he rejoiced. _God, I’ve done it, I’ve killed Lilith! I’ve stopped the Apocalypse!_

The bright light extinguished and heavy weight slumped into Sam’s grasp. A triumphant smile on his face, he looked down, recoiling when bright orange hair filled his vision. He instantly opened his hand and the body dropped, momentarily resting on its knees before falling backwards where she remained motionless. The girl’s eyes were still open and blood leaked from her tear ducts and nose.

“What did you do?!” Reggie exclaimed, shocked. “You killed her!”

Sam blinked and looked up to Reggie, then back at the girl. It wasn’t Lilith, but he had been so sure! _What the fuck is happening?!_ his mind cried, but only a bewildering rush of colors, sounds, and sensations answered him.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and he was slammed down into the chair. Tim stepped around him and turned to the hunters.

“Now, you all know what you just saw. This _freak_ drank demon blood from a living girl and was able to not only exorcise, but kill, a demon with only his mind. Usually he spares the host, but I guess he wasn’t feeling generous today. A few of you might think this is a pretty nifty trick. Sure, we’ve all met psychics and witches on hunts and sometimes we let ‘em go. But Sammy here, well, he’s kinda special. His power was given to him by a demon when he was six months old and it certainly wasn’t to help humanity. Using these powers, he broke the first _and_ the last seals on Lucifer’s prison cell, allowing Lucifer to rise from Hell and start the Apocalypse! Isn’t that right, Sam?”

All eyes turned to him, shining orbs dancing in his vision, and he hung his head before nodding in affirmation. Faces which had been wrenched with terror and disbelief only moments before began shifting to anger and hatred.

“Why’d you do it?” someone called out.

“He claims he was trying to help, trying to stop the Apocalypse. But I don’t believe that for a second, and I’ll tell you why. You know how demons need a meatsuit?” Most of the crowd nodded. “According to Sam, so do angels. But Lucifer isn’t any ordinary angel, he’s an archangel. Big and powerful and strong. He needs a special meatsuit, a true vessel, crafted just for him. And Sam here, with his demonic powers and psychic mumbo-jumbo, is Lucifer’s true vessel, perfect for Satan himself. Right Sam?”

Sam nodded again but Tim grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. “Say it.”

He glanced among the hardened faces and saw no sympathy. Tears leaked from his eyes as he forced his tongue to cooperate. “I did it. I broke the seals, let Lucifer free, and now he needs me to end the world. I was made for Lucifer to possess so he could ruin everything.”

Gasps again spread throughout the group but Tim kept talking.

“Thing is, Lucifer isn’t at full power unless he has Sam. He can do this and that, but there’s no full-on Armageddon without Sam here. Together, they will be pretty much unstoppable. Little Sammy here is after one hell of a power trip, huh?”

“Then why don’t we just kill him?!” another voice shouted. Others murmured in agreement.

Tim smiled ruefully. “We’ve tried. Several times. Freak says Lucifer won’t let him die. So I figured we should use him to kill demons and monsters, and when we have some free time, why not blow off some steam?”

A man stepped forward, his dirty baseball cap obscuring part of his bearded face. “My mom got attacked by demons a month ago when they were looking for me. They tore her to shreds! Are you saying this motherfucker is responsible for letting all those sons of bitches out?!”

Tim nodded. “He may not have opened the gates of Hell himself, but his actions have led to this mess. The world might end and it will be his fault!”

The man gripped the bars of the cage. “Let me in there so I can have a swing at him!”

Tim held up a hand and the man bristled, emitting a low growl. “It’s alright, Justin, I’m gonna let ya. But I wanna also open up the invitation to all of you. We can’t kill him, but we can make him suffer, make him pay for his sins. He deserves it and he knows it.”

“What about Dean Winchester?” a woman asked. “Aren’t they pretty much inseparable? Don’t want him tracking me down!”

Memories of Dean began trickling into Sam’s mind and the rate increased until it was a violent torrent eating away at his sanity. Everything inside was moving too fast and everything outside was moving too slow.

Tim looked down at Sam and smirked. “They definitely used to be. But when we found him, he was alone and miserable. I think Dean deserted him the moment he found out what a disgusting monster he is. I mean, can you blame him? It’s probably still best Dean doesn’t find out, wouldn’t want him spoiling all the fun by locking him up somewhere secluded. We’re planning to make this little Freak Fight Club available to any hunter who wants it. He has a lot of debts to pay back… So, spread the word and be my guest…” Tim graciously swept his arm out like an emcee introducing the main act.

Reggie opened the door as Justin jogged around and stepped in, his angry face focused on Sam. He bent over in front of Sam so that their eyes were level. Hate blazed in his glare, seeming to crawl out of his eyes and poison his face. Flames reached out toward Sam and he had to look away. “Fucking coward!” Justin hissed and took a swing. The powerful blow knocked Sam out of his seat and onto the floor. A steel-toed boot sank into his recently healed rib and he yelped with pain, drowning out the man’s verbal assault.

Quickly, much too quickly, others joined in, all screaming their hate at him. He tried to curl up into a tiny ball with his hands over his head, but strong arms ripped his limbs out and held him down. Pain burst all around him like dazzling fireworks. So many hands and feet grabbing and kicking, pulling him apart, pulling him to pieces. Screams and shouts and grunts. Their voices crashed and melded until they were all Dean, yelling their righteous vitriol, saturating his psyche with ruinous, malignant venom.

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak!”_

_“If I didn’t know you, I’d want to hunt you.”_

_”You were the one that I depended on the most. And you let me down in ways that I can't even...”_

_“Do we even know how far off the reservation, how far from normal, you are?”_

_“Monster, Sam. It means you’re a monster.”_

_“I just don't... I don't think that we can ever be what we were. You know? I just don't think I can trust you.”_

_“You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”_

_“Sam, you're lying to yourself.”_

_“You got any other fantastic excuses? Hmm?”_

_“Because it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are! It means— It means you’re a monster._

_“We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. We’re better off apart.”_

_“I tried so hard to pretend that we were brothers. That you weren't one of the filthy things that we hunt. But we're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.”_

_“You were always a monster. And you only feel right when you're sucking down more poison and more evil.”_

_“We should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.”_

_“This is about as far away from strong as you can get. Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic.”_

_“You're a monster, Sam – a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.”_

_“The Sam I knew, he’s gone.”_

As if taking a cue from Dean’s harsh words, the defiant resistance that had held on for so long inside him crumbled and submitted to the myriad levels of abuse terrorizing his existence. Fighting any of it was pointless now. Besides saying ‘no’ to Lucifer, nothing else mattered. Not his body, not his life, not his freedom. Despite their words to the contrary, he was sure Dean and Bobby hated him. Tim was right. There was nothing redeemable about him. His continued survival was an affront to the universe. His foundation had eroded away and he was now adrift, at the mercy of his fragile mind. Beneath the chaotic din of unbridled hate, Sam didn’t even notice the hairline crack that spiderwebbed its way across his psyche.

He didn’t know why yet, maybe it was the drugs, the pain, or all the kicks to his head, but reality was slipping away from him, receding like the Impala’s tail lights down an empty road.

He told himself he should care, that he should fight harder, but if he were to be honest with himself, truly honest, this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He didn’t have to be him anymore.

Sam Winchester could be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know they gave him a mix of stimulants and depressants, but they’re assholes like that.   
> PSA: Narcan would only work for opioids such as heroin, morphine, and prescription pain-killers; there are no antidotes for the others. Check in your area for Narcan training so you can learn how to safely administer the antidote as well as get a dose.


	15. Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Comfortably Numb’ lyrics belong to Pink Floyd. No copyright infringement intended.

Time ebbed around him like he was a smooth stone in a lazy current. His surroundings were moving too slowly to make sense but he found it soothing. Muted colors swirled in his vision, though he could have sworn his eyes weren’t actually open. A familiar melody drifted through the dense haze swimming around him. He reached out and felt through the empty fog, grasping for something he wasn’t even sure was there.

‘ _There is no pain, you are receding / A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon / You are only coming through in waves / Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying / When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse / Out of the corner of my eye / I turned to look, but it was gone / I cannot put my finger on it now / The child is grown, the dream is gone / I have become comfortably numb_ ’

An impish grin spread across his being. Were they playing that because they knew that’s how he felt? It was too fitting to be a coincidence. Or was he putting too much thought into it, like always? Like, like _he_ always said he did… His brain shied away from that beloved name, that familiar face; it stabbed an ugly, excited ache through his very soul, and no, he couldn’t do that now, he was finally freed of all that, right?

What was freedom anyway? Even when he was living the life he thought he wanted, doing… something… God, why did it feel so hard to think? Digging for memories felt like a colossal excavation and all he had were his battered hands. Like a rainbow, the closer he thought he got, it seemed the same distance away. And what pot of gold was waiting for him? All he had, his only possession in the world, was his ‘no’ to Lucifer. It was the sole decision he had agency over and he hugged it tight to himself. He forced himself to relax though, the damn angel hadn’t even shown himself recently except for a few whispers here and there. Enough from the devil to know that his supposed _maker_ wasn’t angry or concerned, just waiting patiently. Two could play that game. If this is what his existence was now, a blurred carousel of soft sound and whirling lights and blunted sensation, then he could hold out just as long. What’s eternity if time is meaningless?

Minutes or years later, he couldn’t tell, movement ceased and then he was being moved. Funny how he was moving earlier but it wasn’t really him moving, but now _he_ was moving and it felt different but the same? That didn’t really make sense though, right? Did it matter if it did? Who’s to say that– his wispy train of thought was knocked off its rickety rails as his body formed a puddle on the ground. What was he doing here? Why was he—

A sharp sliver of pain pierced his neck and the violence was alien to him. Pain had erased itself from his being and its reintroduction was vicious. Itchy heat forced its way through his body, conquering inch after inch of vulnerable terrain. Abruptly, clear memories clawed at his mind and disfigured his perception. This was not some street drug they were giving him, this was demon blood. Injected directly into his bloodstream. Had he known he would never be the same after this moment, he may have fought harder. As it was, the best he could muster was a faint whimper as the fingers of darkness shoved their way inside his soul and gripped him tight, hurling him into a short-lived freefall. He crashed into something solid, something that felt like safety, but he knew it was an illusion. He was on the precipice. He wavered at the edge for a moment, begging for gravity to be merciful just this once. And then he was moving again.

Frenzy wracked him as he realized he was sliding down towards the ever-present river of dancing fire that hid inside him like a parasite, feeding off his soul. Numb hands scrabbled for something, anything, to slow his descent but the only purchase they found was hardened rock coated with something slippery and warm. Flames reached out and caressed his feet, tugging him towards the infernal abyss. All he could do was helplessly watch as the sanctuary of the canyon wall drifted away from him and churning lava slithered around his body, eager to seal his fate. He tried to stay afloat but it was like a current was dragging him down, beckoning him towards what he had always resisted. Some part of him intuitively understood that to give in was a betrayal of everything he held dear, but another part just didn’t care anymore. He was tired, worn down, broken beyond recognition. He flailed for a few more seconds before closing his eyes and allowing the fiery riptide to pull him under.

Heavy weight pressed in around him and forced him to expel the air from his lungs. Panic infested his mind as he struggled for air, his lips parting involuntarily to inhale the corrupting ichor. He knew he should be afraid as the liquid filled his lungs but he was instead suffused with the sensation of _being home._ It was not an emotion he had ever consciously felt and it both elated and confused him. Comforting warmth stretched through him as he breathed in deeply. The more he explored the feeling, the more he recognized the drastic effect of his forced decision. The desire for the familiarity of the towering plateaus of his ego was gone. Purged from him was his shame, his fear, his frailty. Gone was his benevolence, his empathy, his humanity. These things lingered deep within him, though they felt like nothing more than an echo of a distant shadow. Something new had been forged in the molten core of his inescapable corruption.

This was his moment of surrender. He knew that when he next opened his eyes, the world would not recognize the being within. 

* * *

Pulling the demons had seemed effortless but his body clearly felt otherwise. He lowered his hand and tried to step towards a tree for support. His gait faltered and he sagged to the ground just short of the trunk. Footsteps crunched behind him and he awkwardly turned his body so that his back was against the tree.

“You’re getting better every time, freak.”

He stopped brushing away the tiny pebbles and fragments of wood pressed into his palms and looked up, a savage smirk on his face.

The two hunters recoiled in surprise, fear erupting on their faces.

“What the fuck?!” Tim gasped at the same time Reggie exclaimed “His eyes!”

Though he couldn’t see himself, he had a firm idea what they were talking about. He had felt the shift in his soul, felt the fire consume the last of his resistance, felt his internal landscape melt away and reshape itself. Yet even though he expected it, almost rejoiced in it, there was still something in him that flinched at hearing it said aloud.

“Why are your eyes black?” Tim half-whispered, half-interrogated.

He rose to standing and Tim trained a gun on his head.

It was uncharted territory for him but maybe he could use it to his advantage. He cocked his head to the side as if he were just an inquisitive puppy, not some demon-killing pet. No, not a pet, _a monster_. And they were prudent to be afraid of him. He had never tried his demonic powers on humans, but his psychic powers, a lifetime ago, had worked on objects. Why wouldn’t the same be true now?

He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest in new-found defiance, the pulsing thrill of the blood singing under his skin making him cocky. “Did you really think something like this _wouldn’t_ happen? That I wouldn’t snap? That your physical, emotional, and psychological abuse would have no impact? That fending off Lucifer was an easy task? You fucking bastards!” He began to raise his right arm, funneling his energy towards his fingertips. “I’m gonna make you pay for—”

His threat was abruptly cut off as Tim emptied an entire clip into his face, his index finger still frantically pressing the trigger until his captive’s body slumped to the forest floor.

“Fuck!” Tim screamed at the top of his lungs before trying to calm himself by taking a few deep breaths.

“What the hell do we do now?” Reggie asked, visibly shaken by the unexpected turn of events.

Tim tucked his gun into his belt and pulled out his phone. “Fuck if I know,” he spat. He punched in a number and angrily smashed the dial button. “Stupid prick better answer,” he growled.

“Who?”

“Oh, thank fuck, Creedy. You need to get your ass to Fort Collins. We got a problem.”  
  



	16. Cold

He watched with abject horror as a blast wave moved towards him in slow motion, rippling lines of energy streaming out from the core of his being. Both all too soon and not quickly enough, the explosive force smashed into his existence and flung him away into the cool, dark recesses of his soul with which he was so far unacquainted. A flash of brilliant light pierced his awareness and he soon found himself struggling to breathe. As if hiking at high altitude, the air felt thin and inadequate. He scrabbled uselessly, his eyes too light-bleached to see anything, his fingers feeling nothing but cold, his mouth clogging with something thick and unforgiving. Exhaustion and asphyxiation won out and he slumped down into the snow drifts of his soul, unaware of the oncoming storm.   
  


* * *

He woke to a world of blinding white and pernicious cold. Heavy, diffuse pressure hugged his entire body and he quickly realized that he was buried. He brought his hands up and started to frantically claw at the snow above his face, rapidly clearing out a small pocket for him to breathe. He continued to dig, ignoring the bright red of his fingers. A small patch of snow gave way and he triumphantly broke through to the air. However, save for the lack of resistance against his struggle, the sky was so blanched with falling snow that he couldn’t tell up from down. He continued enlarging the opening so that he could stand, then instantly regretted it. Biting wind slashed at his face and the frigid air made his teeth ache, driving agonizing nails through his gums and into his jawbone. Cold like he had never before experienced infiltrated his clothes, leaving him feeling as exposed as the moment he was born. Knowing he needed to find shelter, he began pushing his way through the snow, his numb, red hands leading the way. A strong gust whipped the frozen icicles of his hair into his eyes, forcing his eyes closed out of sheer necessity. He urged himself onward, desperate to ease the burning, angry pain he knew was imminent frostbite. Something hard forced his arms back towards him, his hands too frozen to register sensation. He brushed away the coating of snow and found himself staring at ice so clear it could have been glass.

And there on the other side stood Lucifer.

He staggered back, his movement becoming uncoordinated as the chill pervaded his muscles and nerves. He spun and went back the way he came, forging a new path through the towering walls of snow. It wasn’t long before he reached another solid barricade, the ice just as clear as the first. He went to the left, his right hand skimming along the barrier. Within seconds he discovered the wall was curved, and with that came a terrifying realization: he was trapped. Soon he was staring at Lucifer again. The angel had not moved, merely biding his time as his vessel fruitlessly struggled against his plight.

“What is this? What’s happening?” he asked through a violent shiver.

Lucifer’s eyebrow quirked up and he tilted his head slightly, examining the human as if he were an unusual zoo animal. In a way, he was. Lucifer opened his mouth to respond but paused and let out a sigh instead. He took a few steps forward and met the fearful eyes locked on his every movement. “Things are happening to you that no one was meant to endure. But the human brain is clever, I’ll give Dad that. I think this is your mind’s way of dealing with it, of shielding you from the trauma. Your soul is splintering. Say ‘yes’ to me, before it’s too late. Before you’re not you anymore.”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’d rather stay here a thousand years than say ‘yes’ to you.”

Lucifer crossed his arms and did his best to hide his irritation. “But don’t you get it? What I told you before, it’s happening. Your soul won’t last much longer the way it’s self-destructing. Why not exert the last bit of control you have over the situation?”

He pressed his frigid palms into his wind-whipped, tearful eyes, wishing more than anything that none of this were real. “No,” he responded staunchly, masking his wavering resolve.

“Even if I could make all of this stop? Make everything better?” the devil plied, hoping the obstinate man would make the logical choice.

“No,” he whispered. “A thousand years. I mean it.”

Lucifer threw his hands up in exasperation then let his balled fists fall to his side. “Fine, have it your way. I’ll be back. Much, much later.”

With that promise, Lucifer disappeared. Violent convulsions wracked his body and he tried his hardest to control his flailing limbs. He slid down against the glacial structure, lamenting the frosty confines of his new prison.

He knew Lucifer was right. He couldn’t hold out too much longer. But he couldn’t give him the satisfaction of winning before his time. He would cling to his ‘no’ as long as anything vaguely resembling life flickered within him. Another strong gust of wind ripped through him and he felt his matchstick flame get just that tiny bit smaller.


	17. Blur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to keep the rating of this story T, so I have written a companion piece titled ‘A Victim of Circumstance’. The contents of that story take place during this chapter. I’ll indicate where you should switch over to that one, should it interest you. I know not everyone likes the more graphic stuff, hence the deliberate decision to separate the two.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the show and modified. Lyrics to ‘Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)’ belong to Journey. No copyright infringement intended.

Creedy pushed the dead, sagging body away from him again as Tim turned onto the highway. _Of course Tim’s truck would only have one working seatbelt in the backseat_ , he thought to himself with a grumble. He allowed himself a surreptitious glance to the left. In the hours it had taken him to get to Fort Collins, the bullet holes in the freak’s face had started to close. His features were still a frightening, gory mess though. “So, start from the beginning, what happened again? What did you do to him?”

Tim’s eyes flashed at him in the rearview mirror. “We didn’t do shit, we just did what you suggested! We did the hunter cage match thing and then went to answer a demon call. He was so damn delirious we had to inject the blood. He pulled the demons and then his eyes fucking went black! You wanna tell me how that happened?”

“Wait, you _injected_ the blood?! Maybe that’s what did it. And I only told you to sedate him a little bit so he couldn’t fight back too much. What the hell did you give him?”

“A mix of stuff, mostly heroin and meth, we think,” Reggie added from the passenger seat.

“Jesus, you guys shouldn’t mix uppers and downers! I don’t know, maybe that made him go crazy? You’re really sure his eyes were black?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, you moron! He even tried to use his powers against us til I took him out! What the fuck are we gonna do if he wakes up and can still do that?” Tim said frantically.

Creedy eyed the body again, as if waiting for it to come alive and show him exactly what Tim meant. “I, uh, maybe we just keep him sedated? Maybe he needs the demon blood for it.” A bump in the road sent the corpse sliding towards Creedy again and he suppressed a groan as he pushed it back over.

“And how exactly do you wanna figure out if your method is gonna work? Not looking to get killed by some demonic psycho.”

“Well, we could put him in a devil’s trap, cuff him, see how long it takes to get it out of his system, see if it’s a permanent change. Hey, maybe it will be a good thing! Maybe you won’t need to keep carrying around demon blood!”

“This having a silver lining is the least of your worries!” Tim threatened. Reggie leaned over and whispered something in Tim’s ear. The two engaged in quiet conversation that Creedy couldn’t quite make out. He thought about creeping forward to try to eavesdrop but decided against potentially disturbing the body or angering Tim. He suppressed his sigh and crossed his arms, resigned to being the odd one out. Well, the odd one out until the dead thing beside him came back to life…

When the two in the front finished their hushed conversation, Creedy took the chance to pitch his new idea. “Hey guys? About that silver lining thing, I actually have something I wanna suggest… another use for the freak.” Tim eyed him in the rearview mirror then nodded for Creedy to continue. “Besides the drugs, he’s in perfect physical condition. We’d probably want to test that everything would stay working after he dies, but do you guys have any idea how much his organs would fetch on the black market? We could harvest everything, and within a day or so, it’d all be back, right?”

“How much money we talking here?”

“More money than you’d know what to do with. Healthy body like his, we’ll get top prices.” He shuffled some sheets around. “Let’s see, if we do the easiest things, we’d be looking at both kidneys for around $200,000 a pop; liver for $157,000; heart for $119,000; corneas are $24,000, as long as his eyes turn back to normal; bone marrow goes for $23,000 a gram and we can probably easily get 200 grams out of him; small intestine for $2,500; coronary artery for $1,500; gallbladder for $1,200; couple thou for some bones and ligaments, around $500 each for stomach, shoulder, spleen, and scalp, though with his hair, I bet we could do way better; $337 per pint of blood; and $10 per square inch of skin. So, conservative estimates on even one round of a full harvest are…”

The smile on Tim’s face grew steadily as Creedy explained. He looked at Reggie. “Why the fuck didn’t we think of that?!” He returned his gaze to the backseat. “C’mon, how much?”

He pretended to add it up just for the suspense, as he already had a total at the bottom of the page. “Provided we can get everything and sell it, we’re looking at around $5,345,000.”

Tim nearly crashed the car in his excitement. “Are you fucking kidding me? Over five million dollars?!”

Creedy beamed. “What better use for the monster than to save other peoples’ lives, _and_ we can make a shit ton of cash doing it!”

“I assume you know the right people to make this happen?”

Creedy grinned, barely concealing his excitement. “It’ll take a few days, but I’m sure I can set it up.”

“Go for it. We’ll make whatever arrangements necessary.”

Creedy pulled out his phone and began punching in a number. “Hope you’re ready to become millionaires!”

Tim glanced at the dead body behind him and smiled smugly to himself. It had come at a terrible cost, but kidnapping Sam Winchester was the best decision he’d ever made.

* * *

Uncomfortable pressure hugged every inch of his body. It was as if he were clad in those lead aprons they use for x-rays, but it covered all of him, inside and out. His skin felt stretched and taut. Reaching out for his power, it felt weak and suppressed, his access seeming murky and confusing. Opening his eyes, he understood why: he was tied to a chair in the middle of a devil’s trap. He smirked to himself, knowing this wouldn’t keep him long. His arrogance was quickly lanced as he realized he had also been handcuffed, and by the feel of them, it was a pair with substantial warding. He groaned with frustration and this drew the attention of his captors.

“Hey, he’s back!” Reggie’s voice called and two sets of hurried footsteps answered him.

“That will never cease to amaze me,” another voice muttered, one it took him a few seconds to place. _Creedy, that fucking bastard._ He glared at the man as he strained against the cuffs and tried to stand, but it was no use. His captor had the nerve to fucking _giggle._ “Looks like we got ‘im tied down tight though, which is good.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re too chickenshit to fight me like real men. Scared of your little pet?” he taunted.

Tim’s expression turned stormy. “What the fuck are you?” he growled.

“Why don’t you take the cuffs off and we’ll find out?” He flipped his long hair out of his face and smiled in a mockery of civility.

“Are you actually a demon?” Reggie asked uncertainly.

He wasn’t quite sure himself, but that didn’t mean he’d let his kidnappers know. All he knew was that he had more power than before. Way more power. “I am what I was when I freed Lucifer,” he answered cryptically, “which was accidental by the way, but that’s neither here nor there,”.

“Then you won’t mind if we run the usual tests,” Creedy offered, a flask of holy water in his hands.

He stared at each man with his pitch-black eyes, a rueful grin on his face. “Do your fucking worst.”  
  


* * *

An hour later had seen the hunters exhaust their repertoire. Several exorcisms failed to perturb him, though he had laughed extensively at their shoddy Latin. Crucifixes and the word ‘ _Christo_ ’ had no impact. Iron and salt left a rash wherever it touched his skin. Holy water didn’t steam upon contact, but still left him with irritating blisters that cracked and oozed. Devil’s traps didn’t hold him, but his powers were greatly diminished while he was within one. His anti-possession tattoo remained intact. Their conclusion: he wasn’t a demon, but he wasn’t a human.

_Not like that information is breaking news_ , he thought angrily.

“Now what?” Creedy asked.

“Now we figure out how to control him. You bring what I asked?” Tim demanded.

“Like I would ever show up empty handed!” He reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a miniature pharmacy. Dozens of little vials and bottles and just as many needles.

Tim surveyed the collection before grabbing a particular vial. He drew up a sizable dose via an intimidating needle and turned to his prisoner, grinning. “Hope you’re ready for _one hell of a trip_.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Tim and Reggie to feel they deserved a vacation once they were making serious money on the black market. They were still struggling to launder it, considering it was _millions_ of dollars that were flowing in, but the hundred thousand they had now would give them a hell of a vacation wherever they wanted. They picked Las Vegas and then Hawaii. Creedy knew now was his time.

Shortly after the two hunters purchased their plane tickets, Creedy slipped away and pulled out his phone. He scrolled down to ‘Uncle Benji’ and pressed dial. It picked up after one ring.

“Hey, Benji, how ya doing? … I’m good man, real good. Hey, you remember that unique item I was telling you about several weeks back? I managed to get it, just for a limited time. … Three weeks at most. … Beginning on the 18th. … Yeah, put it on the docket. … Starting bid? I don’t know, depends what they want to do with it. Maybe, start at $500 an hour? And if they want the full experience, $1000 an hour. And if they want to max out their use, that has to be higher, maybe $1500 an hour plus a $1000 termination fee since we lose some time? … Oh, of course it’s gorgeous. Did you not open the pictures I sent you? … Yeah, _that_ item. Told you I’d deliver! … I’ll bring it on the morning of the 18th. … Great, see you then.”

He closed the phone and took a long look at the freak in the kennel, a grin steadily growing on his face. Sure, the organ harvest was far more lucrative, but he knew _this_ would be much more fun.  
  


* * *

Everything went to plan. Creedy could barely believe his luck. Tim and Reggie were so excited about their trip, flushed with more cash than they’d ever had in their lives, that they basically handed over the freak’s care weeks in advance. Creedy slowly increased his IV nutrition, hoping to put a little more meat back on that bony body. Too thin and the buyers often frowned upon the sale. Creedy asked for Tim’s input but Tim didn’t really care what he did with the freak. As long as he was in one piece and ready to get back on the road when they returned, Creedy had free range. Three weeks was more than enough time to satisfy his troubled desires.

The drive to Benji’s was uneventful. Between the three hunters and lots of experimenting, they’d mastered the drug regimen to make their captive pliant and maneuverable. For the most part. He was still a bit of a wildcard when injected with demon blood, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. Heroin and a devil’s trap seemed to slow his ass down _real good_.

He drove up to the gaudy gated house and punched in a code. The gate hesitated then grumbled open and he pulled through. He parked behind the house and texted his friend. Within moments, the lifelong bachelor strode out of the house, his beyond-middle aged years not betrayed by his smooth gait, handsome features, or stylish suit.

“Creedy!” he greeted, a firm handshake welcoming the younger man. “I have to say, I really don’t know that I believe you on this, so c’mon, show me.”

“Absolutely,” he replied, his self-confidence bolstered by the truly unique thing locked in his trunk. He had taken the time to bathe the freak, brush his hair, and dress his wounds so he would be presentable. He popped up the trunk and slipped the blanket off the crate, revealing the sleeping form curled up on itself.

Benji stepped up and wrapped his fingers around the bars, peering in with thinly veiled malevolent curiosity. “Unlock it.” Creedy pulled out the several keys necessary to open the crate. Benji leaned in and ran his fingers through the long chocolate hair. He let out a low whistle. “He’s even more beautiful in person. It’s almost a shame to auction him… And you’re positive it’s Sam Winchester?”

Creedy nodded adamantly. “100% sure. I trust Tim and Reggie, but I confirmed it independently on my own. It’s him.”

Benji’s appreciative smile became a wide grin with too-white teeth. “That’s excellent. He and his irksome brother once cost me an excellent item by way of Bela Talbot. While I would have much preferred the rabbit’s foot, Sam Winchester makes an excellent consolation prize.” He motioned for Creedy to lock the crate. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

After moving the crate inside, Creedy felt it expedient to prove the freak’s regenerative properties. A quick knife to the throat and a few hours illustrated his resurrection to Benji’s satisfaction. Creedy explained all the relevant details while they waited, the older man entranced by the strange creature before him. Benji was feeling much more forgiving of the boy’s previous transgressions; suddenly _he_ seemed like the much more desirable object.

* * *

When he awoke, the blood from his latest killing had been washed away and he was dressed in black tight-fitting boxer shorts. He seemed to be in a small storage room, illuminated with a naked bulb above his head. He noticed he was in a new cage, one big enough for him to stand if he wanted. Not that it mattered: he was still trapped. The air was warm enough that he wasn’t cold, but goosebumps crawled over his skin anyway. He could hear muffled voices but he didn’t have the energy to listen. Again, it didn’t matter. It never did.

After what could have been minutes or hours, two men dressed in black grabbed the sides of his new cage and pulled him forward. He was told to ‘stand up and stay still’. Flaps of fabric were pulled back and bright lights blinded him. At first, he couldn’t tell where he was, only that he was somewhere with a lot of people, if the gasps and murmurs were anything to go by. As his eyes adjusted, the words he heard made sudden, horrible sense.

“On to our next item, number 67. I’m sure many of you are here for this! Having inspected the item myself, I can’t say I blame you! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, demon spawn, and the man who started the Apocalypse! We will be offering several bidding levels, as our purveyor has described several unique attributes, which I can attest are genuine: Tier 1 bids will begin at $500 per hour, where he shall be released to you as a defenseless toy for your unrelegated pleasure. Tier 2, beginning at $1000 per hour, gives you a fighter with superhuman strength and a wicked temper. This is fueled by treatment with demon blood, which will of course be provided with your winning bid. And lastly, in an item so unique I am tempted to bid myself, Tier 3, for a starting price of $1000 plus $1500 per hour, you have the ability to make your own snuff film with this beast, as he is cursed with eternal resurrection at the hand of the fallen archangel himself, Lucifer! I assure you this is a real item. We can confirm inventory for the next week, with the potential for two more weeks after that. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, folks.”

The crowd broke out in a boisterous display, questions flying, insults raging, and excited mouths babbling.

Benji slammed the gavel a few times to silence everyone. “Obviously there will be limits on the number of sessions per day, but we will do our best to accommodate everyone. If you are unable to secure a session this evening, we may be able to come to an arrangement. Please also keep in mind that this is only the first week’s offering. Though, I feel I should add, I expect demand will increase exponentially.” He turned his head to take a look at the cowering figure and smiled in anticipation. “Alright, due to the short notice, we are offering one session tonight, a Tier 1 option. All tiers will be available throughout the rest of the week. So, can I get $500 for an hour with Sam Winchester this evening, from 11 pm-12 am?”

“$500!” a number of voices called out.

“$550!” a blonde woman shouted.

“$575!” a dark-skinned man with silver hair countered.

“$600,” a British accent answered.

“$650,” the blonde offered.

Up and up it went until the blonde woman shouted out “$1800!”, a $200 increase over the previous bid, and no one challenged her.

“Sold!” Benji called out as he banged the gavel.

She suppressed her squeal of delight and eyed the man in the cage with unconcealed excitement. She was going to be the first.

“Congratulations! Please visit the atrium desk to secure your winning bid. Okay, on to tomorrow, starting at 8 am. We will schedule Tier 1s first, then Tier 2s, followed by individual Tier 3 requests. We’ll start with a one hour Tier 1. Can I get $500?”

* * *

**[Go to ‘A Victim of Circumstance’ if one so chooses. Be warned, very dark fic.]**

* * *

Dean pulled off I-29 into Onawa, Iowa for the essentials: gas, snacks, and a bathroom. It was less than two hours to Bobby’s. He was so damn close. Onawa was another of the countless boring tiny towns he had been through in his life. Nothing stood out about it as he made his way down Iowa Avenue towards the Sinclair gas station with a Sparky’s convenience store. Dean felt a surge of envy for the smattering of regular people going about their lives, completely ignorant of the planet-threatening battle taking shape. He wasn’t one of these average people, he was a goddam vessel for an archangel! Not that he’d let that happen… He felt nostalgic for the times when his biggest concerns were having enough money for food, booze, or a motel, or researching how to kill a monster they hadn’t come across before. Now he had to juggle dodging angels, finding his brother, and figuring out how to stop the Apocalypse. _Yeah, no biggie!_

He packed those thoughts away as the gas station came into view. He topped up his Baby first, assiduously scrubbing the windshield clean of bugs and dust while he waited for her hungry tank to fill. He pulled the car out of the pump stall and into a parking space so he didn’t block someone else. He locked her up and walked into the little store and headed for the bathroom, eager to stretch his legs after having been sitting for so long. He would never admit it out loud, but he really couldn’t drive the Impala for days on end like he’d been known to claim. He quickly took care of business and started cataloging what food he wanted. As he washed his hands, Separate Ways by Journey began playing on the staticky radio. He absent-mindedly hummed along to the opening guitar riff as he opened the door and stepped out.

Onto a brightly lit stage.

What?!

He looked behind him as the music continued, an instrumental version apparently playing because the words never began. He was met with the face of a young woman with a headset on, peeking out from behind a curtain, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Go on, get out there! You’ll do great!” she whispered earnestly.

“What’s going on?!” he asked gruffly, disoriented and defensive.

“Stop stalling! Go!” She gave him a soft push and he stumbled out into the light. A single microphone stood before him, along with an electric guitar.

“Next up, we have Dean Winchester,” a voice announced over the loud speaker. “He’ll be performing Separate Ways by Journey, in an ode to his brother who is no longer with us.” The audience ‘awww’ed and he stepped back. _No longer with us?! Sam isn’t— What the fuck is happening here?!_

“What?!” Dean huffed, his mind unable to keep up with the onslaught.

The music was interrupted by the classic DJ scratching sound and everything seemed to freeze.

“Dean,” a vaguely familiar voice called from in front of the stage, “walk forward.”

Dean did as instructed and three chairs behind a desk came into view, with the ‘American Idol’ logo lit up behind them. There sat Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, and a face it took him a second to place, until it registered – the Trickster!

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He considered jumping off the stage to throttle the demigod but realized he was completely unarmed.

The Trickster smiled in that desire-to-punch-him-in-the-face-inducing way and Dean seethed. “You’ve been distracted, Dean. Pining for your brother, intent on saving him from whatever disaster you think has befallen him. There’s an Apocalypse out there, and I think that’s a bit more important than your brother. Radio silence doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad has happened.”

“Then why did the announcer say ‘no longer with us’?” Dean challenged.

“To help you work out your feelings and get back to what really matters!”

“You’re kidding,” Dean growled.

He pointed to himself as he pushed back in the chair. “Hello, Trickster, not Jokester.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, Dean, I’ll give you a chance to come to terms with everything. I’ll even make it fun for you!”

“No, you’re gonna let me out of whatever the fuck this is,” he motioned weakly with his hand, “and let me get back to looking for Sam.”

“All in good time. I’ll let you go when you’re ready.”

“When I’m ready? What does that mean?”

“When you’ve learned what I want you to learn.”

“And what exactly is that? Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because some truths have to be _experienced_ , Dean-o. You Winchesters are a stubborn lot. Extreme actions have to be taken.” He shrugged as if it were out of his power.

“Fine, what do I have to do?”

“Whatever you have to.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Thanks, real specific.”

“You’ll figure it out. At least I hope you will, or this could take a while…” He looked at the microphone and guitar. “Let’s get this party started, huh?”

“I don’t even know how to play guitar!” Dean complained, panicking slightly.

“Figure. It. Out.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond but the Trickster merely snapped his fingers and disappeared as the world started moving again, his spot replaced by a man he didn’t recognize.

The song started over and Dean went to the mic and picked up the guitar, awkwardly positioning the strap. He tapped his foot to the beat and placed his hands where he thought they should go. He closed his eyes and let his hands move as they wanted, and somehow, magically, the right the notes came out.

He stepped back and cleared his throat, before returning to the microphone and beginning to sing.

“ _Here we stand, worlds apart_

_Hearts broken in two, two, two_

_Sleepless nights, losing ground_

_I’m reaching for you, you, you_

_Feelin’ that it’s gone, can’t change your mind_

_If we can’t go on, to survive the tide, love divides_

_Someday love will find you_

_Break those chains that bind you_

_One night will remind you_

_How we touched and went our separate ways_

_If he ever hurts you, true love won’t desert you_

_You know I still love you_

_Though we touched and went our separate ways”  
  
_ As his hands played as if they weren’t his, he thought about how appropriate the song was for his and Sam’s situation. Dean had told them they were better off apart, on opposite sides of the world…

“ _Troubled times, caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain”_

(Hitting the nail on the head there…)

_“Distant eyes, promises we made were in vain, in vain, in vain”_

(Didn’t that just stab a knife through his heart!)

_“If you must go, I wish you love”_

(And hadn’t he, when he offered Sam take the Impala?)

“ _You’ll never walk alone_ ”

(Yeah, because of one certain fallen archangel!)

“ _Take care my love, miss you love_ ”

(He really did miss his pain-in-the-ass little brother.)

He struggled not to choke up as he sang the rest of the song, instead pressing his fingers into the frets as hard as he possibly could to distract himself.

“ _I still love you, man, I really love you, man_ ” he belted out, consequences of changing the lyrics or having a one-sided chick flick moment be damned.

The song was over before he realized it and raucous applause greeted his ears. He went to put the guitar down and when he looked up, the scene had changed.

Instead of releasing the neck of the guitar, a broken ski stuck out of the snow. He was surrounded by snow-covered pine trees. A camera with a solar panel was pointed at him and he had a GoPro on his head. Best he could tell, he had been skiing and crashed here, breaking both his skis. He had a small bag with him that held a knife, some ski wax, a plastic bottle of vodka, a pair of headphones, and an iPhone.

Puzzled, Dean tried to figure out what the deal was. He thought through all the shitty reality TV he’d ever watched and nothing came to mind. Then he thought about the stupid stuff Sam would sometimes watch on the Discovery Channel and realized he had to make his own episode of ‘Survivor Man’.

“Nope, not doing this!” Dean called out. “Gimmie something more reasonable!” He crossed his arms and sat down in the snow, refusing to engage in this ridiculous game.

After about thirty minutes, his ass started to get really cold and the sun was low in the sky. He gathered up all the gear, except the cameras, and trudged into the woods. “This is dumb,” he yelled as he walked. “What if I just don’t do anything, huh? What if I don’t play your stupid game. What you gonna do then?”

As if on cue, a number of wolves’ howls echoed through the increasingly dense forest and sent shivers up Dean’s spine. “Okay, geez, fine,” Dean grumbled. “Not like any of this is real, anyway.” He took a few more steps until he heard a distinctive metallic click. He didn’t even have a chance to look down before searing pain bit into his lower leg and he screamed. He fell over in surprise and inspected his leg. A rusty bear trap had closed around him, right above his ankle. “Fuuucckkkk!” Dean shouted, the adrenaline pouring through him not sufficient to dull the pain.

Blood was already staining the pine needle-strewn snow. He had to get the damn thing off and stop the bleeding. _Vodka!_ He fished the bottle out and took a healthy swig before securing it in the snow. He carefully wriggled out of his jacket, took off his shirt, replaced the jacket, and used the knife to cut the shirt into strips. He grabbed a stick and put it between his teeth, bracing himself for the oncoming agony. He took a deep breath then placed his hands on either side of the closed arms. With a burst of strength, he pried the arms apart and pulled the teeth from his flesh. He tossed the thing to the side and reached for the vodka, pouring a generous amount on the wounds. Fire ripped through his nerves and he let the scream rip out of his throat. Next he balled up some fabric to staunch the bleeding and used the remaining strips to tie a makeshift bandage around his ankle.

When he finished, he flopped down into the snow and panted heavily. “Real… It’s fucking real…”

The sun was beginning to set and he knew he needed to get moving. One, to get away from the scent of blood, and two, he needed some kind of shelter. He repacked his meager belongings, including the trap, and hauled himself away from the gory scene. After ten minutes of brisk limping, he came to a fallen tree that had torn up all its roots as it fell. The thick gnarl of roots and dirt would provide one wall for a shelter. He looked around and realized there plenty of sticks and small branches to build with, if only he knew how best to design such a thing.

“Bet the fucking nerd would know,” Dean hissed to himself, imagining Sam geekily braiding together some vines to make a door hinge for his stick fort. He rolled his eyes and started collecting materials. “Whatever, don’t need him. I can do this by myself!” he assured himself.

He was lucky a full moon had risen to illuminate the cool night. It took him three hours to build something he deemed respectable, something that blocked out the wind and shielded his body. It didn’t look great, but it would suffice. He set the bear trap out about twenty feet from his shelter on the off chance he could catch something. When he laid his head on his backpack and closed his eyes, his last thought was a faint “See, I don’t need Sam…”

When he woke up, he was disheartened to see he was still in the same settings. Worse, his stomach was grumbling something fierce. A glance at the bear trap told him it was empty. His leg throbbed fiercely so foraging was out of the question. He crawled out into the snow and ate some to provide hydration. He thought through his options for food. There were pinecones galore around him, but he’d save that as a last resort. He could make some pitfall traps and hope to catch something small. He could probably make the ski into some kind of throwing spear if he tried hard enough. Rotting logs might contain insects… and while they definitely had a lot of nutritional content, he was positive he’d rather eat the pinecones…

* * *

Two weeks of living out of a tiny stick hut saw Dean pushed to his absolute limits. He’d resorted to eating snow to help him feel full when his traps were empty and he couldn’t spear anything. He’d managed to make a fishing hook and fishing line out of the headphones and iPhone pieces, but most of the fish seemed to be hibernating. The only good things he had going for him were the small fire that he tended with his life and the plastic vodka bottle, which he used to melt and store water. The vodka was gone after the first three days, though far more than he would have liked was dedicated to sterilizing his wound.

He’d held on this long out of pride and sheer stubbornness, but his will was just about defeated. He didn’t want to die here.

“C’mon, haven’t I done enough?!” Dean shouted. “What more do you want from me?!” He was starving, thirsty, injured, cold, lonely, and all around pissed off.

The Trickster appeared, leaning against a tree. He popped his lollipop out of his mouth and smiled. “Dean, Dean, Dean. You’re doing a great job at the whole survival thing, but you’ve missed the most important part.”

“And what’s that?”

“Recording it! Hey, I left those cameras right there for ya. Thought it was pretty obvious what you were supposed to do. Guess you’re denser than I thought.”

“So, what, I have to be that dude from the show and film how I’m surviving?”

“Bingo! And best get to it, blizzard season is fast approaching.”

Dean was about ready to tackle him when he flickered out of view. Dean let out an aggravated yell. “Fine, you want me to film it? I’ll fucking film it in all its glorious pooping-in-the-woods detail! Is that you want, you fucking pervert?!" In the silence that answered him, he couldn't decide if he felt proud or childish. He chose not to think about it anymore lest he dislike his conclusion. 

* * *

Another week found Dean an expert at alpine survival, on-the-go-recording, and amusing narrative. He reached the bottom of the mountain and set the cameras on the road. “Okay, I get it!” he called out.

The Trickster appeared a few feet away from him. “Yeah? Get what, hotshot?”

“Playing my role. That’s what your game is, right?”

“That's half the game.”

Dean’s face crinkled in consternation. “What's the other half?” _Like I haven’t already done enough bullshit._

“Play your role out there.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know. Sam starring as Lucifer. You starring as Michael. Your celebrity death match. Play your roles.”

“You want us to say ‘yes’ to those sons of bitches?”

The Trickster grinned facetiously. “Hells yeah. Let's light this candle!”

“You want the end of the world?” The Trickster shrugged and Dean narrowed his gaze. “Heaven or hell, which side you on?”

“I'm not on either side.”

“Yeah, right. You're grabbing ankle for Michael or Lucifer. Which one is it?”

“You listen to me, you arrogant dick. I don't work for either of those S.O.B.s. Believe me.”

“Oh, you're somebody's bitch.”

The jovial nature vanished from the Trickster’s demeanor and he darted forward, grabbing Dean and slamming him into a tree. Dean stealthily pulled a rock out of his pocket.

“Don't you ever, ever presume to know what I am. Now listen very closely. Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna suck it up, accept your responsibilities, and play the role that destiny has chosen for you.”

“And if I don't?” Dean challenged, lifting his arm to strike.

The Trickster grinned condescendingly. “Then you'll stay here in TV Land. Forever. Three hundred channels and, uh, nothing's on.” He snapped his fingers, disappeared, and everything changed once again.

The rock in his hand was now a tumbler of bourbon. He set it down a cocktail table in front of him. The door next to a cream-colored leather couch opened and a middle-aged man popped his head in. “Ready to meet your first contestant?”

Dean looked down and he was dressed in a fine dark blue suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He looked to the right and saw a large camera was pointed at him, a decal reading out ‘The Bachelor’ on the side. Dean had to stop himself from laughing. _The Bachelor? That stupid dating show? Oh Jesus fucking Christ…_

He returned his gaze and nodded. “Yep, send her in.”

The man smiled. “Remember, you get ten minutes with each woman,” he said then closed the door. Dean took a breath and straightened out his suit coat. The door swung open and in walked a drop dead gorgeous woman. She had straight dark brown hair with matching eyes, full lips that weren’t too big for her face, and dimples when she smiled. The cut of her dress accentuated her ample chest and slim build.

He stood up and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dean.”

The woman’s smile became a grin and she took his hand. “I’m Alyssa. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

He stepped over to the couch and held his hand out. “Here, have a seat.”

Alyssa obliged and sat on the middle cushion, forcing Dean to be in much closer proximity to her than he had otherwise planned, but he wasn’t complaining. Well, maybe he took that back. Her perfume tickled his nose and it brought a rush of fond memories. Warmth was pooling in his groin and an uncomfortable pressure was building in his crotch. He mentally chided himself but also felt like it wasn’t such an unusual reaction after having not seen another human being, let alone a woman, for three weeks. He shifted awkwardly to ease the discomfort and hoped it would pass soon.

“So, Dean, they told me you’re a detective for the FBI. That must be exciting. What’s it like?”

Dean hid his surprise with a nod. “Yeah, I am. Well, you know, I can’t really talk about what I do—”

“Or else you’d have to kill me?” she giggled.

Dean smirked. “Exactly. I mean, it’s tough, I see some messed up things, but at the end of the day, it’s about helping people and I feel good doing that.”

She put a hand on his knee. “That is so brave. Your mom must be so proud of you!”

“Oh, uh, my mom, she passed away when I was a kid…”

She gasped and her hand left his leg. “Gosh, I am so sorry, that must have been difficult for you.”

“It’s alright. Yeah it was hard, my dad never remarried, but you know what, we’re not here to talk about grim pasts, tell me what you do.”

“Oh okay. I run a horse therapy program for wounded veterans.”

“Wow. Tell me more about that,” Dean said with false enthusiasm, suddenly understanding that what had originally seemed like it could be fun was really going to be a long day of small talk. There wouldn’t be any frisky getting-to-know-you, just verbal exchanges and interested stares.

Dean suppressed a groan and resigned himself to several hours of tedious hell. 

* * *

The last contestant was sitting beside him, a decently endowed redhead who was an ER trauma nurse. At least Dean had some battle stories he could share, albeit with modified details, so they could connect on that level. Some of the other women had given him little to work with and the whole endeavor had been exhausting and frustrating, not to mention he had an epic case of blue balls.

There was an urgent knock on the door, followed immediately by the door opening. Dean was shocked to see one certain trench coat wearing angel rush through. Dean stood and stepped towards him.

“Cas?! What are you doing here?… wherever here is… How’d you even find me?!”

“I found Lindsey Kangas as you had asked. I called several times to deliver the news but you never answered. I went to Bobby’s since you were supposed to be there… He said you were five days late and weren’t picking up your phone. I feared perhaps Zachariah or Michael had abducted you. It appears I was not far off the mark.”

“What do you mean? This is the Trickster’s doing.”

“The Trickster?” Castiel shook his head. “It can’t be.”

The angel was suddenly pushed out of the way as the door was forced open. Two security guards came through and grabbed Castiel. He struggled but found himself being dragged away.

“Keep searching, Dean, it’s your only way—” A large hand clasped over his mouth and then he was out of sight. Dean tried to follow but was intercepted by the producer from earlier. The man put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and gripped him tight.

“The Trickster does not appreciate interruptions by pretty boy angels.”

Dean scrunched his face in confusion and derision, caught off guard by the description of Cas as a ‘pretty boy angel.’

“You’d best concentrate on playing your part, boy,” the man hissed then pushed Dean hard back towards the couch.

When he landed, the scene had changed and he found himself in the driver’s seat of a tiny car. He looked around and realized he was on a set. Cameras were pointed at him once again and it occurred to him he was in a commercial. More glances at his surroundings revealed posters and other promotional details for a car. And not just any car, a Smart Car. Revulsion prickled his skin.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spat. “This thing isn’t even worthy of being called a car! Look at me!” He motioned to his body crunched into the seat. “I don’t even fit in this thing!” He went to open the door but it was locked from the outside. “Let me out!” he hollered, indignity enhancing his frustration.

“Ready to roll in 3… 2... 1…”

“What the fuck am I supposed to say? The leading car for midgets? I mean really, since when did J.D. Power and Associates have a category for Fisher Price toys?” Dean grumbled loudly.

“Cut! Dean, you need to take this seriously. Just stick to the script. It should be on the passenger seat.”

Dean looked to the side where there was a clipboard with a piece of paper, but it was blank.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” he yelled out, hoping the Trickster would hear him wherever he was.

“Get it together. You can do this. Rolling in 3… 2… 1…”

“C’mon! What is the possible benefit of this car? I can’t even fart in here without getting claustrophobic.”

“Yes, it’s small, but with gas prices going up, getting 33 mpg city and 41 on the highway can go a long way towards putting cash back in people’s wallets. Let’s go. 3… 2… 1…”

He tried to focus on what playing his role here would mean.

He rolled the window down, stuck his arm out casually, and put on an award-winning smile. “Yeah, I know what you’re probably thinking. This car is tiny, it doesn’t look tough, it can’t even fit my whole family in it! But what it lacks in size and engine power, it makes up for in efficiency and savings. The 2010 Smart ForTwo gets 33 miles per gallon in the city and up to 41 on the highway. I bet ya can’t find anyone else with numbers like that. Say goodbye to being late because you couldn’t find parking. And just think of all the money you’ll save on gas and all the games, concerts, or events you can attend instead. She may not be sexy, but who needs a cool car when your life just kicked it up a notch?” He winked to seal the deal.

“And cut! That was great, Dean!”

“Dean!” a deep voice echoed and Dean looked to his side. Castiel was there, his face a little bloodied and worse for wear.

“What the hell happened Cas?”

“Dean, it can’t be a trickster. Or perhaps he’s no ordinary trickster. This is far beyond their level of magic. It was immensely difficult to find you. There is something else going on. We need to get out of here.”

“On it!” Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and floored it. They passed a row of bright lights and were suddenly driving in a shopping mall. To Dean’s great relief, it was the Impala’s wheel in his hands, her low rumble cascading up and down his legs. “Oh Baby,” he murmured, his hand caressing her dash, “I’ve missed you!”

“Dean, focus!” Castiel said, agitated.

Dean swerved to narrowly avoid missing a small vending stand when he heard sirens. Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw the police cruisers and he realized where he was.

“Oh my God, Cas, we’re in The Blues Brothers! In one of the most epic chase scenes in film history!” The grin on Dean’s face was borderline feral as he dropped his foot on the gas pedal.

“Dean, you need to focus!”

The angel was roundly ignored as Dean cranked the wheel and smashed into Davidson’s bakery. He snagged a donut on the way by and stuffed it into his face.

“Just in case it is a trickster, I obtained a stake for you.” Cas shoved it into Dean’s lap, forced to hold it there as Dean swung the car to take out a music store. “Try the stake and if it works, it works. If not, we’ll have to come up with another plan.”

The Trickster appeared in front of the Oldsmobile display and Dean sped up towards him. “Castiel!” he shouted, irritation evident in his tone. “How dare you try to kill me! I’ll deal with you later!” Dean looked at Cas, who was staring at the Trickster with shock and recognition. Before Dean could ask, the demigod snapped again and Castiel vanished.

“Cas!” Dean yelled then turned his eyes back to the Trickster. He cranked the wheel hard and turned, swinging the Impala to the side and giving Dean the perfect opportunity to run the Trickster through with the stake.

Deadly weapon thus impaled, the scene flickered with static before an abandoned warehouse took its place.

Dean stepped out of the car and looked around. Part of him was hoping it was over, that the son of a bitch was dead, but he doubted it would be that easy. He stepped inside the warehouse and snooped around. A strange blue box lurking in the corner confirmed his suspicion. He didn’t know what it was, only that he’d seen the thing on DVD covers. So, it wasn’t a trickster, just as Castiel had thought. He’d said it was something more powerful. In fact, Cas seemed to know who it was, which meant…

“Oh, you sly motherfucker!” Dean growled. “I bet you’re a goddam angel!”

He went back to the Impala and laid out the trap of holy oil.

“Alright, uncle!” Dean called. “I give in! I’ll do it!”

The Trickster materialized and crossed his arms with a smug smile on his face. “Yeah? You’ll go quietly?”

“Sure, just one question. Why didn’t the stake kill you?”

The creature shrugged. “I am the Trickster.”

“Or maybe you're not.” Dean flung a lighter to the ground and smiled coldly as the ring of fire erupted from the ground. “Maybe you've always been an angel.”

The Trickster looked shocked and laughed incredulously. “A what? Somebody slip a mickey in your power shake, kid?”

“I'll tell you what. You just jump out of the holy fire and we'll call it my mistake.”

The two locked eyes, seemingly at a stalemate, before the Trickster began a mocking clap. “Well played, Dean. Well played. Where'd you get the holy oil?” 

“Pays to have friends in high places.”

“Where'd I screw up?”

“You didn’t. I just know it’d take something special to toss Cas around like you did. Mostly it was the way you talked about Armageddon.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, call it personal experience, but nobody gets that angry unless they're talking about their own family. So which dick with wings are you?”

“Gabriel, okay? They call me Gabriel.”

“The archangel?”

“Guilty.”

“Okay, Gabriel. How does an archangel become a trickster?”

“My own private witness protection. I skipped out of heaven, had a face transplant, carved out my own little corner of the world. Till you and your brother screwed it all up.”

“What did Daddy say when you ran off and joined the pagans?”

“Daddy doesn't say anything about anything.”

“So, what, you leave because of your douchenozzle brothers?”

“Shut your cakehole. You don't know anything about my family. I love my father, my brothers. Love them. But watching them turn on each other? Tear at each other's throats? I couldn't bear it! Okay? So I left. And now it's happening all over again.”

“Then help us stop it,” Dean implored.

“It can't be stopped.”

“You _wanna_ see the end of the world?”

“I want it to be over! I have to sit back and watch my own brothers kill each other thanks to you two! Heaven, hell, I don't care who wins, I just want it to be over.”

“You can’t mean that. All of earth… gone. I thought angels were supposed to protect humanity! There has to be some way to call it off.”

Gabriel laughed and looked at Dean with pity. “You do not know my family. What you guys call the apocalypse, I used to call Sunday dinner. That's why there's no stopping this, because this isn't about a war. It's about two brothers that loved each other and betrayed each other. You'd think you'd be able to relate.”

Dean gave him a confused look.

“You sorry son of a bitch. Why do you think you and Sam are the vessels? Think about it. Michael, the big brother, loyal to an absent father, and Lucifer, the little brother, rebellious of Daddy's plan. You were born to this. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Why do you think I've always taken such an interest in you two? Because from the moment Dad flipped on the lights around here, we knew it was all gonna end with you. Always.”

“No. That's not gonna happen.”

“I'm sorry. But it is.”

Gabriel sighed and seemed apologetic. “Dean, I wish this were a TV show. Easy answers, endings wrapped up in a bow... But this is real, and it's gonna end bloody for all of us. That's just how it's gotta be… So. Now what? We stare at each other for the rest of eternity?”

“Well, first of all, you're gonna bring Cas back from wherever you stashed him.”

“Oh am I?” Gabriel challenged.

“Yeah. Or I’m going to dunk you in some holy oil and deep-fry myself an archangel.

Gabriel gave Dean a disapproving look then snapped his fingers. Castiel appeared, winded but with no additional injuries.

“Cas, you okay?”

“I'm fine. Hello, Gabriel.”

“Hey, bro. How's the search for Daddy going? Let me guess. Awful.”

Castiel’s spiteful glare was the only response necessary.

“Okay, we're out of here. Come on, Cas.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Uh. Okay. Guys?” the archangel called out, concerned. Castiel followed Dean. “So, so what? Huh? You're just gonna, you're gonna leave me here forever?”

Dean stopped at the door and spun to face Gabriel. “No. We're not, 'cause we don't screw with people the way you do. And for the record? This isn't about some prize fight between your brothers or some destiny that can't be stopped. This is about you being too afraid to stand up to your family.” He pulled the fire alarm and all three beings watched as the sprinklers went off. “Don't say I never did anything for you.”

Dean walked out and gave a silent prayer of thanks that his Baby was outside, damage-free. He turned to Cas, his mind already thinking about next steps.

“Cas, go make sure Lindsey is wherever you left her. I’m gonna call Bobby.”

The angel nodded and disappeared with a flap of wings.

Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the number three speed dial. It picked up after one ring.

“Dean! Are you okay? Castiel said—”

“Yeah, Bobby, I’m fine. Just met another one of the Ninja Turtles… The archangel Gabriel.”

Bobby failed to suppress his surprised gasp. “Gabriel? Like, _messenger of God_ Gabriel?”

“That’s the one. And he is as much of a dick as the rest of them.”

“What the hell happened? I’ve been pulling out what little hair I got left trying to find you!”

“He thought he could teach me a lesson about ‘playing my role’ in the Apocalypse. Something about understanding my destiny and saying ‘yes’ to Michael. I managed to trap him in holy fire and make him squeal. Oh, did I mention that he’s the trickster who killed me over and over again at that mystery spot in Florida?” Bobby let out an incredulous noise. “Yeah, bastard has been undercover as Loki to avoid his screwed-up family. He wants the Apocalypse because he thinks it will bring God back.”

Bobby blew out a long breath between pursed lips. “This is way above our pay grade.”

Dean snorted. “Tell me about it! Hey, Cas said I had been missing for days. How long was I gone?”

Bobby went quiet for a few moments and Dean’s stomach plummeted. “Uh, well, Castiel said he found you about two weeks ago… So, about a month and a half?”

Dean froze. “What?!” He took a moment to let that sink in. He’d lost around six weeks of searching for his brother. “Any word from Sam while I was gone?”

“Sorry, son, no.”

Dean let out an aggravated growl as he ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t get it! He has to be somewhere. Why haven’t we heard from him? Anything from your contacts? It’s not like he could have just vanished into thin air!”

Bobby paused then answered, his words slightly rushed. “Well, uh, I, uh, might be able to explain that.” Bobby’s voice had gotten uncharacteristically tight during that sentence and Dean’s heart rate skyrocketed.

“What, Bobby?!” The fuse was lit and Dean was going to blow in _5…4…_

“In between looking for you, I was making calls to every hunter I knew and then some. Got some new names. One of ‘em, real eccentric hunter, runs in some weird circles, so I don’t how much I trust the information…”

_3… 2…_ “Okay, just spit it out.”

“I can’t be sure it’s Sam, but, I mean, who else could it be? It’s not like there’s tons of people who can—”

_1…_ “I get it, you’re not 100% sure on the intel. Just tell me.”

“You’re not gonna like this…”

_0…_ “Godammit Bobby!” Dean practically shouted.

Bobby forced out a sigh then inhaled deeply. “This guy says he heard about some hunters that had, and I quote, ‘some psychic freak on a leash who could kill demons with his mind.’”

He heard Bobby continue to speak but blood rushed into his brain and blotted out all rational thought _. Hunters?! Psychic freak on a leash? Who could kill demons with his mind? Definitely Sam. What did they mean ‘on a leash’?_ “Bobby,” Dean interrupted, and the older hunter stopped talking. “What did he mean by ‘on a leash’?”

Bobby hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “Dean—”

“Tell me, Bobby.”

“Sounds like they’re holding him against his will. Keeping him locked up.” He faltered, unsure how much to share. “The guy went as far as using the word ‘pet’.”

“What?!” Dean roared as he slammed on the brakes.

“Son—” Bobby started but Dean was having none of it.

“A pet? They’re keeping Sam as a pet? A demon-killing pet?” Dean rasped, his throat refusing to function. “Who?”

“I—I don’t know, Dean. He didn’t have names. Trust me, I asked.”

“Get a where at least?”

“You should come back here so you can fill me in on what happened and we can plan what to do next,” Bobby urged.

“There’s not really much more to tell you. I don’t give two shits about their damn Apocalypse. I just want to find Sam. The sooner I get there, the better. So, a location?”

Bobby sighed. “He said they go wherever the biggest demon surge is. Seems like they’re using Sam as a one-man army to take them all down. Last I saw there were some serious signs popping up outside of La Crosse, Wisconsin.”

“Got it. Thanks Bobby. Let me know if you hear anything else.” He hung up and resisted the urge to smash his phone.

“I’m coming, Sammy, just hang on!” he murmured, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be too late.

* * *

Blur. Everything was a blur. He shivered in his cage, barely aware of the outside world. Sometimes vague, disjointed words filtered in, but his muddled brain made no attempt to piece together their meaning. It didn’t matter anyway. The details changed, but the routine never did. After some experimentation, it was determined his eyes only went black when there was enough blood to ignite his powers. Best he could tell, when he was on-call for demon eviction, he’d be injected with demon blood and some sort of compliance-inducer and a sedative to keep him from fighting back. Once the effect wore off, his eyes would return to their normal hazel. And then he would be weak again. Only the sedative was used when he was thrown out as monster bait, a hunter punching bag, or an organ farm. If they wanted him to fight, they’d give him a stimulant and his brain felt like it was going to explode right along with his frantically beating heart. When they wanted to sell him for parts, they’d make the first few incisions without anesthesia before shock set in and consciousness dwindled away. Through it all, he was powerless against their every assault, continually locked in the exhausting thrall of both chemical and supernatural withdrawals.

They kept a shock collar on him to keep him from crying out or talking back; not that his juiced-up self paid that any attention. He would speak and taunt the hunters anyway, just for the hell of it, ignoring the blistering burns on his neck. Those never seemed to heal when he was resurrected, though. Probably because they weren’t life-threatening, but the constant sharp ache never dulled. He almost had to be grateful that they didn’t make him eat solid food because he wasn’t sure he could chew and swallow without passing out. In reality, there was nothing to be grateful for. His entire existence was pain and submission, or submission and pain, or both at the same time. There was nothing else to him, except on the blood, but even that wasn’t really _him._ This was his eternity and it was all he could do not to flee into the gaping maw of insanity.

Every day, he retreated further from himself, conditioned more and more to respond to their commands. Control was a foreign concept to him; the illusion of control known only to his demonic doppelganger. What made him _him_ seemed to be slipping further and further away, fading from his being like a groggy dream. But who he was didn’t seem to matter any more, not as long as he could hold on to his ‘no’. The reason for the perpetual refusal frequently ebbed away from him, but it was the only thing he had left to hold onto. A ‘no’ until the end of time. If it was the last thing he did. He did his best to ignore the soul-deep fear that even that wouldn’t be good enough. That his best attempt was just a flimsy excuse and he was avoiding the inevitable. Sometimes green eyes and familiar lips told him to ‘hold on’ and ‘keep going’, or blue eyes and chapped lips told him to ‘give in’ and ‘say yes’ but eventually those images were also extinguished in the ocean of his anguish. He came to the realization that _to feel_ was _to suffer_ and decided he would do his damnedest to stop feeling at all.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Black market values of organs are given in ~2014-2018 estimates.
> 
> Also, I have no experience with drugs, so I apologize if my characterizations are incorrect.


	18. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame ‘Good Omens’ for this chapter. Watching that gave me the idea to read through Revelations at 1 am. This was the result.

Dean almost didn’t hear the phone over the blasting chords of Led Zeppelin. He turned down the music and picked up the phone.

“Dean, I thought you were returning to Bobby’s. He says you are going to Wisconsin. I think we should speak with Lindsey Kangas instead.”

“Yeah, Cas, I’m sorry, but after what he told me, I have to go and try to get him. Bobby thinks he’ll be in La Crosse because of demon activity there.”

“I am also concerned about these latest developments… Would you like me to go and assess the situation? I gather you are still far away?”

“I’m probably about three hours out. Sure, go, and if you find him, stop at nothing to bring him back!”

“I will do my best.” The angel ended the call and Dean turned the volume back up, his mind entirely focused on rescuing Sam from his plight. 

* * *

Tim and Reggie traveled to La Crosse following a significant uptick in demonic omens in the area. The city of 51,277 was too small to have that much activity for normal demon business. But it was just large enough that they didn’t want to search it by foot. Luckily for the hunters, they had a way around that inconvenience. They’d discovered that one of the expanded powers their black-eyed freak had gained was the ability to sense the exact location of nearby demons. In some ways, it seemed more like a literal bloodlust: he would sniff the air and set his features in a determined snarl towards the direction his quarry lurked. Attempts to draw him anywhere but closer to his next taste of unholy power resulted in extreme violence from both sides. The hunters were now well prepared for this.

In an empty parking lot, with a retaining wall to their backs, they opened the trunk. They pulled a blanket off the crate, revealing heavily warded bars and a rug with a stitched devil’s trap beneath it. Ever since his time with Creedy, their captive had become much more of a pet: when sober, he didn’t fight, didn’t cry out, was obedient, and always made himself small and out of the way. Creedy wouldn’t tell them what he’d done, claiming ‘client confidentiality’, but they were grateful for the new-found acquiescence.

“Get over here, bitch,” Tim ordered. The creature rolled over and crawled forward, carefully positioning his right arm towards the hunters. Reggie drew up a substantial volume of blood and delivered it via the IV port in his arm. His head tucked down and he curled in on himself slightly. The change was nearly instantaneous so they stepped back and waited for a moment. “Find them.”

The midnight black that that rose up to meet their gaze rarely failed to startle them. He grinned ferally. “There’s nine of them.” He inhaled and smelled the air, his eyes closing with anticipation. He tilted his head, as if listening in on a quiet conversation. “I know exactly where they are. They’re at the City Brewing Company plant.”

“Good job. You’re such a good boy. Yeah, you’re a good boy,” Tim cooed mockingly as he tossed a dog treat into the kennel and slammed the trunk closed. He smiled at the muffled, indignant cursing from behind the door. Taunting the wicked thing never got old. 

* * *

Castiel landed on the Minnesota side of the Mississippi River bluffs, overlooking La Crosse, allowing his energy to be drawn towards a similar wavelength.

An objectively beautiful vessel of Iranian descent was standing next to him, also admiring the view. Her hair was in an elegant braid and she wore a pale blue flowing dress tied around her midsection with a gold cord that ended in tassels. The soft breeze danced ripples into her dress.

“Apsinthion, what are you doing here?” Castiel asked, shocked the angel was on Earth.

“I made my delivery, as instructed by Michael.”

Castiel grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. “No! Why would you do such a thing! That is prophesied to poison a third of Earth’s waters! Millions, maybe even billions, will die!”

“I was merely following orders.” The angel seemed unperturbed by the information, though maybe a little confused by Castiel’s emotional outburst.

Castiel searched her face frantically. “Where did you deposit it?”

“Originally, I was going to put it in the Mississippi River, so it could spread through America’s heartland before reaching the sea and spreading from there. But a group of demons made me change my mind.”

Castiel would have felt his stomach drop had he been aware of such simple human physiological reactions. “Dare I ask how they did that?”

“They explained that putting it in the water would mean children would be exposed, innocents! I cannot abide by that. They suggested adding it to a sinful human beverage, beer, which leads humans to behave in despicable, vile ways. They knew of a place where this immoral substance was made and distributed. I did not want to set foot in such a dirty place so I gave it to them.”

Castiel turned and stepped away, his hand scrubbing down his face. “Apsinthion… I…” He paused and took a deep breath, spinning to face the naïve angel. “Do you know exactly where they took it?”

“No, but I know they are somewhere in La Crosse. I thought it was a fitting name. I was tracking their movement but not too long ago, their auras became obscured. They are still nearby, but I cannot pinpoint a location.”

“We have to stop them. I have no doubt they will do as they say, but we cannot let this plague spread.”

“But it is written. It must occur.”

“No, it doesn’t. Trust me, the Apocalypse can be averted. If you truly care about the lives of innocents, then you should help me. If Michael and Lucifer have their way, _billions_ , if not _all_ of them, will die. Surely not every human deserves death?”

The other angel turned away and crossed her arms, pondering. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with forsaking the Word. Why would I do that?”

“Because the Word was written down and translated by Man! So few of us were actually there when the Lord spoke. Do you know everything He said? I don’t! We cannot blindly trust that this is God’s will. Angels were meant to protect humans, not smite them. Can’t you see this is wrong? Please, Apsinthion, help me search for the demons.”

She sighed and frowned, unconvinced. “Explain to me again why this matters?”

Castiel suppressed a frustrated groan, hoping he would still have time to reverse the angel’s actions after he had educated her in the ways of Team Free Will.

* * *

Except for the number of demons, the hunters weren’t at all concerned about their latest job. Sure, nine demons would be a new record for the freak, but they’d given him more than enough blood to handle them. Breaking into the plant wasn’t difficult, nor was finding the demons. What they hadn’t accounted for was what the demons might be doing.

From the shadows, they watched the demons carefully unpack a vial from an ornate box of silk and mirrors. The vial contained a liquid that seemed to be boiling within the glass, the grey viscous substance swirling and bubbling as if under its own power. One demon, an attractive Hispanic man with pierced ears, took the vial in his hands and held it up to the light.

“Now!” Tim murmured urgently and pushed their little demon spawn out onto the floor.

Instantly, the demons all stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him, but it was too late. His hand was up and he seized them all with his power, lifting them up in the air. The demons started shouting angrily so he twisted his hand slightly, a whiplash of pain quickly communicating that he was in charge.

Tim and Reggie stepped out and approached the floating vermin. He plucked the vial from the demon’s hand and inspected it. “What is this?”

The demon smirked even though it was trapped. “I’m not saying a damn word.”

“Alright, your loss.” Tim flicked his hand towards the demon and debilitating pain encircled its body. Unseen by the hunters, blades of white-hot energy emanated from the human with black eyes, spearing the demon from the feet up, forcing it to evacuate the body. Once out in the open, the black smoke was trapped in a net of hissing sparks and dragged to the floor, immolating on contact with the dirty cement. The body dropped to the ground limply, obviously already dead.

The cocky looks fell from the other demons’ faces. Tim approached the nearest demon, a brown-haired white man in his thirties with a tribal tattoo exhibited prominently on his neck. “You wanna tell me what this is? I’ll even be generous and offer you a deal. You spill, and he’ll just exorcise you instead of kill you.”

“L-look, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Yeah?” Reggie questioned, pulling out a flask of holy water and splashing the demon with it. “And why not?”

“You two read your Bibles growing up?” it hissed through the pain.

“We’ve had time to catch up a bit the past few months,” Tim answered.

“You read about Wormwood?”

The two hunters looked mystified but a familiar voice spoke up behind them. “Revelations 8:10-11: ‘The third angel sounded his trumpet, and a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water – the name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters turned bitter, and many people died from the waters that had become bitter.’ You’re saying that’s Wormwood?”

The demon nodded as the two hunters looked at each other in confusion. “Nicked it off some dumbass angel. Convinced her not to dump it in the Mississippi, let us handle it instead.”

Reggie narrowed his eyes. “Why would she agree to that? And what’s it to you?” he asked.

“We told her putting it in the water would kill kids, innocents. Putting it in the beer would only kill ‘sinners’. She liked that. We care ‘cause we can just tell our side to avoid Sam Adams.”

“Hmph,” Tim emitted, thinking through what was being said. “Well, looks like that’s another demon plan botched,” Tim said happily. He handed Reggie the vial and was about to turn when the demon started to laugh.

“Fucking hunters. You think you know everything, but you meddle in things you don’t understand.”

Tim frowned and looked at the freak. He nodded then returned his gaze to the taunting hell spawn.

Truth was, _he_ didn’t need Tim’s instruction to punish the demon. Pumped up on demon blood or not, he still resented the vile creatures. Having a demon act so smug, like it was superior, was even more of an affront. His hand closed into a fist as he drove daggers of energy into the demon’s essence. It’s throaty howl was all he needed to earn a thrill of satisfaction.

“Give it a chance,” Tim ordered and he relaxed his hand. “What do you mean? What don’t we know?”

“Like… I’d fucking… tell you…” the demon panted out. Tim nodded again and the screaming resumed. About a minute passed before Tim silently commanded a pause with a raised hand. “Okay… okay… please, no more…” he begged. “I’ll tell you, please, just make him stop…”

“Fine,” Tim spat and lowered his hand to his side.

The demon dropped to the floor and hunched in on himself. “The Wormwood. It’s not a simple poison… More like a living thing. You can’t just throw it out. It won’t stop until it encounters a human soul. One atom per soul. That’s the only way to neutralize it.”

“Why don’t I just give it to you?”

“All our meatsuits are already dead, so no soul left. Won’t work.”

Tim grumbled and turned to look at Reggie, who surreptitiously glanced over to their pet. He smirked and faced the demon. Confident the evil being wouldn’t dare try anything with the freak binding him, Tim got in close. “Will it work if we give it to him?” he whispered.

The demon glanced at the black-eyed monster preventing his escape then back to the hunter. “I honestly don’t know, but probably. And if you try, I’d suggest you get the fuck out of here once you do.”

“Why’s that?”

“That stuff is supposed to kill like 3 billion people. No knowing what will happen when it’s all given to one person! A divine poison mixed with a human-demon hybrid? No way that shit is safe!” Secretly, the demon was hoping two things: 1) The hunters would leave on his warning and his compatriots, or maybe at least he himself, could escape. 2) There was a more than fair chance that the sheer amount of angelic Wormwood could flat out kill the Boy King, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about him. Sure, his sire would be down a perfect vessel, but at this rate, there wouldn’t be any demons left to command the way the boy was cutting down his brethren.

Tim mused on the demon’s words and decided the pain in his eyes meant he was being honest. “Kill the demons,” he said loudly as he stepped back.

“But we had a deal! I told you the truth!” the demon cried, trying to stand and failing.

The blonde hunter shrugged. “Sucks to be you.” He spun to face his partner. “Reggie, give him the Wormwood.”

The demons started to scream at their forced eviction until their pet saw Reggie walking towards him and realized Tim had been referring to _him._ His eyes got wide and his hold over the demons faltered. The other seven fell to the ground as his concentration disintegrated in the face of fear. His usually angry voice wilted in panic, understanding this could be permanently fatal. And with demon blood dirtying his veins, there was no way he wasn’t going to Hell. “No, don’t,” he plead, “You don’t know what it will do! It might actually kill me! Don’t do this!” He backed up, trying to outpace Reggie. He flinched when he hit a wall.

“If it does, it does. We’ve gotten an excellent return on you,” Tim said nonchalantly, following two steps behind. “Now open up, you demonic freak!”

He turned his head and tried to pull on his power, but it was too scattered, weakened by holding the demons in place. Reggie clamped his hand around his jaw and squeezed, Tim held his nose closed, and faster than he liked to admit, he submitted.

He heard the vial pop open over his mouth and then the churning grey liquid hit his tongue. Bitterness like he had never before experienced, worse than the purest coffee extract, the darkest chocolate, or the hoppiest beer, washed through his mouth. He could feel it surge down his throat, to his stomach, to his blood, to his fingertips, his brain, his feet. He was vaguely aware of hands releasing him, but he was no match for the chaos that ignited in him the very next second.

In a manner he could not and would never understand, he felt the very unraveling of everything that made him _him_. His skin peeled off his muscles, the fibers of which began to fray like cut rope. Inch by inch, his bones disintegrated into powder. His organs tore themselves apart, cell by cell, death by 42 trillion microscopic catastrophes. His brain short-circuited one neuron at a time, his memories and his person extinguished at a racing pace. It was an agony he’d couldn’t comprehend, every molecule of his being obliterated as the divine substance closed in on its prey: his soul.

He had a fraction of an instant to appreciate the unparalleled sensation of nuclear fission occurring in every atom in his body before he stopped existing.

Or so he thought.

On the brink of absolute annihilation, something flared up in his defense. A wisp of power he didn’t even know was there, a strand of something ancient and foreign.

Unbeknownst to him, from his first drop of demon blood when he was six months old to the hit injected just before they came to this factory, an essence had been collecting in his soul, slowly accumulating. For in every demon, there was a speck of its maker, warped and diseased, spun into grotesque forms by hate and malevolent intent. These infinitesimal fragments coalesced into a thread braided around the soul providing them shelter, bestowing inexplicable powers in return, and connecting its new home with its origin, albeit only in dreams. But now, at the moment of its looming oblivion, the glowing gossamer tore through the rippling fabric of time and space, calling out to its celestial source for deliverance. The very existence of the vessel himself was at stake, so the sliver of grace residing within him made a desperate plea to its angel.

* * *

  
608 miles to the south, Lucifer was finishing his summoning spell for Death. Everything was going to plan. Well, everything except Sam Winchester.

While the delay certainly irritated him, he found that he respected the human’s tenacity. In fact, he saw a lot of himself in the young man. Righteous, fierce, not afraid to make himself heard, consequences be damned. He couldn’t fault Sam for holding on to what he believed. He just wished they could come to some sort of agreement. The poor thing was suffering beyond what Lucifer had thought a human could endure. Apparently, Sam Winchester existed to prove him wrong.

He sighed and inhaled to begin the final incantation when the familiar twinge fluttered through his being: his vessel was in mortal danger, again. He almost rolled his eyes when a piercing snap of energy swept through him. Instantly alert, he blotted out the external world and concentrated on the screaming, frenzied vibrations of his errant grace. Through the cacophony, he delved into the thin, delicate connection he shared with the human’s unconscious mind, following the tenuous threads of grace, and realized all his plans were suddenly in danger. This wasn’t any human-derived death, this was something new, something which could very well spell the end of his vessel.

Loathe to interrupt the demanding ritual but completely unwilling to lose his perfect vessel, Lucifer flew towards the existential threat assaulting the agonized human. With no time to waste, he poured his divine essence into the disintegrating body, its soul far too distracted with its complete obliteration to deny him entry.

The vessel hadn’t been prepared, and as such, bright light burst from his eyes, his mouth, and even his skin. Huge wings shadowed upon the wall, Lucifer’s grace spilling out into the very air around him. The angelic essence tunneled through Sam’s body at the quantum level, purging the Wormwood and repairing the fatally wounded molecules.

“How dare you try to destroy my vessel!” he shouted, his voice a mix of Sam’s and his own angelic Enochian roar. “How dare you try and steal my most valuable weapon! You shall pay with your lives for eternity!”

Sam’s body began to glow unbearably brightly and the eyes of the demons burned out, along with some of their clothes and skin. Lucifer’s rage unappeased, fires ignited on anything flammable as the sheer amount of energy spilling from his body started to melt everything around him, even brick and steel.

For all of Lucifer’s power and foresight, he had overlooked one crucial detail, and it would be his undoing. As his grace repaired the vessel, as it had done so many times before, it also repaired the numerous sigils irrevocably scarring the man’s skin. In a split second, Lucifer went from raining down unholy vengeance upon traitors to banished from the body allowing him control of his power. The expulsion was apocalyptic, a burst of energy radiating out from the epicenter with a flash of blinding light like a nuclear detonation. Lucifer was cast far from his true vessel, as were the two lower angels who had just arrived to save the day, only to be caught in the blast wave.   
  


* * *

Tim and Reggie had run the moment the freak’s skin started to peel away. Whatever was about to go down, it couldn’t be good. They’d made it outside to the street when the explosion happened. A metal loading door caught them and hurled them across the road. Severely winded, battered, and likely concussed, they pulled themselves up, realizing they had to make their getaway, and fast.

Tim looked back to the crumbling, burning building and began limping towards it.

“Just leave him!” Reggie cried out.

“If I turn around, you better be following me,” Tim shouted back, marching into the hellhole. It wasn’t hard to find their freak; he was in the center on a clean patch of floor surrounded by chaos. They quickly picked their way through the wreckage. His hazel eyes were open and lifeless, his hands ice cold as they each grabbed one. Despite literally dragging him through the fire that raged around them, his body remained freezing to the point of being painful to touch. But they couldn’t worry about that now, they had to escape. They could puzzle over their demonic weapon later, far from this shitshow. 

* * *

By the time Dean arrived in La Crosse, he could tell some kind of disaster awaited him. He had seen the tower of smoke and steam billowing into the sky from miles away. He knew in his gut it had to be related to his brother. He stopped on the side of the road and changed into his Fed suit, suspecting that was the only way he’d be able to get close to the scene, and hopefully, to Sam.

He followed the main thoroughfare into town until he was stopped by a police cordon. Several officers were bustling about, turning people away. He parked Baby in a discrete location and tried calling Castiel again, for the fourth time, but to no avail. He angrily shoved his phone in his suit pocket and approached the yellow tape.

As he looked down the street, he could see the origin of the smoke and steam about two blocks away: a large crater surrounded by fallen building façades and what looked like the largest cans of beer he’d ever seen.

He caught the attention of one of the cops with his badge. “Hi there, Agent Mullen, FBI. Heard about quite the disturbance on the scanner. Mind telling me what’s going on?”

The young cop nodded and lifted the tape for Dean to cross under. “Best we can tell, there was some kind of explosion inside the plant. We haven’t found any evidence of fuel or accelerant, so we’re not sure if this was intentional or not. Explosion destroyed most of the canning infrastructure and completely took out four of the brewing vessels. The contents were partially vaporized by the blast. Foreman says they were brewing Sam Adams Utopias beer.”

Dean shook his head. “Such a shame to lose that much booze. Any casualties?”

The officer frowned and nodded, his face blanching slightly. “So far we’ve pulled eight bodies from the rubble.”

Dean’s step faltered and he coughed to mask his worry. “Been able to ID the victims?”

“No. Foreman doesn’t think they were any of his employees, but, it’s uh, a little hard to tell…”

“Why’s that?”

“Looks like someone or something gouged their eyes out with a hot poker or something. Their eye sockets were all burned.”

Dean felt his throat close a bit and he accelerated his pace. “Let me look at the bodies. I’ve seen this before.”

“You have?” The man struggled to keep up with him.

“Been in the business a long time. I’ve just about seen it all.” He hurried down to the corner where a row of tarps was laid out on the asphalt. He looked up quickly to survey the wreckage. The crater was primarily localized to a single block, but the explosion had done severe structural damage to all the surrounding buildings. Whatever had done this was immensely powerful. As the cop had mentioned, four huge brewing vessels, painted to look like giant beer cans, were strewn around like paper cups. The other two were tilted precariously, giant ruptures near the base explaining the hundreds of gallons of beer now sloshing underfoot.

The coroner noticed Dean’s perplexed gaze. “’World’s largest six pack’,” she explained with air quotes.

“Oh, huh,” Dean replied noncommittally.

“You must be a Fed,” the woman observed, peeling off a glove and holding her hand out. “Dr. Hind, La Crosse County coroner.”

Dean shook her hand. “Agent Mullen, FBI. How’d you know I was a Fed?”

“I mean, besides the suit and lack of surprise on your face, the fact that you didn’t know about one of La Crosse’s major landmarks tells me you’re not from around here.”

“Fair enough,” Dean commented. “One of the uniforms told me the victims had something weird done to their eyes. I may have encountered something similar. Can you show me their faces?”

Dr. Hind nodded and put on a new glove. She crouched and Dean held his breath as she pulled back the tarp from the nearest body. Relief trickled in as he saw it wasn’t Sam, but it was quickly supplanted by the confirmation of angelic mojo. The eyes were burned out in a way that only an angel could achieve. The rest of the man’s skin and hair were in various stages of burn trauma. These were probably the demons causing all the omens. Demon infestation meant Sam had been or was still here. _Hopefully not among the dead._ He swallowed hard. “Can I see the rest?”

She replaced the tarp then showed him each body, all of them marked by the same burns except for one which lacked the burnt-out eyes. None of them were his brother. He suppressed his soul-deep sigh of relief and looked at the coroner. “Thanks. I don’t know any of them, but I do recognize the injuries.”

“What the hell causes them?

“They’re uh—” _C’mon, think of something, quick!_ “They’re a type of magnesium micro-explosive some gangs in Chicago have started using. Blinds the victim, usually kills them. Can make ‘em hard to ID.”

“Oh. Nasty business. Well, I’ll be sure to pass that along, and you should probably speak to our PD.”

He nodded. “Will do. I haven’t done much on the case myself, but I can certainly put your people in touch with my colleagues and they can—”

“We got a live one!” someone shouted and a small herd of people flew into action. Firefighters, EMTs, and police officers rushed towards the voice. So intent on rescue, none of them noticed Dean at their side. His long legs and lack of equipment allowed him to outpace the others as he splashed through puddles of fermenting liquid.

He knelt beside the firefighter frantically pulling away bricks and broken slats from the slightly shaking body. “Help… me…” a weak voice rasped, sounding tiny and afraid. Dean’s imagination filled in where knowledge could not and he saw his brother there, pinned under the rubble, dying even as they desperately tried to save him.

Chocolate brown hair peeked through and Dean went into overdrive, tearing at the hot stones with bare hands. Finally enough were removed and with the help of the firefighter and a newly arrived EMT, they yanked the body out of the wreckage. Severe burns covered the body, patches of long hair missing. Dean fell to his knees and turned the head towards him, first seeing the gaping nothingness of the victim’s eyes. The second thing to register, after what had to be a lethal jolt of adrenaline, was that this wasn’t Sammy. He put a finger to the man’s carotid artery. A weak pulse thumped beneath a barely visible tribal tattoo on the man’s neck.

“What did this?” Dean asked quietly, cradling the head in his hands as the other two prepared a stretcher.

The man’s arm shot up and dragged Dean down, his lips against Dean’s ear. “Lucifer,” the man gasped, and then his head slipped to the side as his arm fell away.

Dean jolted back and moved out of the way as the victim was placed on a stretcher and an oxygen mask placed on his face. But Dean knew it was too late. The man, most likely a demon, was gone.

He gulped in fear and prayed to whoever was listening that Sam had managed to escape both the explosion and Lucifer. He didn’t want to think about the alternatives. **  
**


	19. Breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try really hard to do my research for my stories and keep anachronisms to a minimum. But I just couldn’t resist using this song in the fic. It came out in 2012, so please forgive me. It just worked too well! ‘Broken Crown’ lyrics belong to Mumford & Sons. No copyright infringement intended.

He angrily pressed his speed dial again and tucked the phone to his ear as he pressed down on the gas pedal.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Finally! Where the hell did you go?!”

“Something very strange happened in La Crosse. I encountered another angel, Apsinthion. Once I realized what was going on, we tried to find your brother, but when we got close, we were blasted away by a sudden, indomitable divine force. I have just now recovered myself and my vessel.”

Dean suppressed his anger; it didn’t sound like this was Cas’s fault. Hell, he’d seen the crater with his own two eyes. An ‘indomitable divine force’? He’d bet anything Lucifer fit the bill.

“Are you alright? Do you know what did it?”

“I am fine. It was no worse than being cast away by a banishing sigil. I don’t know, but I have no doubt Sam was involved. Did you find him?”

“No. They were already gone by the time I got there. There was just a huge crater left in one part of town. No trace of Sam or the hunters. There was one survivor by the time I got there, I think it was a demon. He said Lucifer did it.”

Cas was quiet for a moment. “Yes, Lucifer would be powerful enough to do such a thing. That is a likely explanation.”

“Do you think he was there for Sam?”

“Who knows why Lucifer does what he does. It’s certainly a possibility.”

Dean ran his hand through his hair. “Goddammit!” he growled. “We were so close! Guess I should have listened to you. Going out to La Crosse was pointless. I think it’s best we go talk to Lindsey.”

“I can take you there immediately. Where are you now?”

“I’m on my way back to Bobby’s. Let me get the Impala situated and get everything else stocked up. Don’t know what we’re gonna be dealing with.”

“How long until you arrive?”

“Uhh, about four hours, depending on how many cop cars I see along the way.”

“And how long have you been awake?”

“I, um… I don’t see how that’s important.”

“Dean.” He could just _see_ the grumpy look on the angel’s face, Castiel’s paternal admonishment evident in his tone. “I have told you before. You need to take care of yourself if you’re going to help Sam. Get some rest at Bobby’s and we will go once you wake.”

Dean didn’t want to waste any more time, especially since he had gone on a fool’s errand pursuing Sam’s captors a state away. But a few more hours wouldn’t change anything. “Fine,” he acquiesced. “But I’m calling you the moment I wake up.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.”

* * *

Dean had barely finished putting on his boots when he called Castiel. “I’m ready.”

Within seconds, that all too familiar flutter of wings graced his ears and Castiel was standing before him, his features grim. “How do you propose we do this?” he asked.

“You said she was in rehab, right?”

“She is at St. Monica’s Behavioral Health Services for Women.”

“Yeah, Cas, that sounds like a rehab.” He rolled his eyes. “They’re probably not gonna look too fondly on two dudes in there if it’s only for women. Walking up and asking to visit isn’t gonna work. Best bet is probably you just teleporting us in as close as you can get to her. Well, make you sure you add in some personal space,” Dean added, partially amused, partially fed-up with his too-close encounters with the angel.

“I will take that into consideration,” Cas murmured as he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

* * *

Deep nausea punched its way into Dean’s gut and he kept his eyes closed, riding out the swelling waves lurching around his body. “God, I’ll never get used to that,” he complained aloud.

A scream penetrated his discomfort and he opened his eyes, the sound of a running shower finally registering as he looked around. He was in a communal bathroom and only one stall had the curtain closed. A shocked face was poking out, staring at him, its owner frantically wrapping herself in the curtain.

“What the hell are you doing in here?! This is the women’s bathroom! Get out of here, you pervs!”

Dean recognized her face and put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. “Are you Lindsey Kangas?”

She halted her movement, one that would have resulted in a fair amount of shampoo covering Dean. Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?” She turned the shower off and grabbed a towel.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester. You know my brother, Sam – well, you probably knew him as Keith.”

Her features instantly softened and before he understood what was happening, damp arms embraced him and wet hair was pressed against his face. He looked at Cas, who seemed just as confused as he was, and awkwardly put his arms around her.

“Oh my God, Sam, it’s horrible, he—, I tried, I really did, and I tried to get to Sioux Falls, like he told me to, but this place is locked down and it’s crazy and he let them and he did it for me and every day it kills me and—” she blurted out quickly, all her words rushing together. Her voice broke in a sob and she squeezed Dean harder.

“Okay, okay Lindsey, we can talk about it, but we need to go somewhere else, someone might find us here.”

She withdrew her arms and looked up at him. “Can you get me out of this place? Please, I need to get out of here. They think they’re helping but it’s only making it worse.”

Dean ran his hand through his hair, thinking. He had no idea why she was here, what she was in rehab for, but her earnest expression and sincere concern for Sam left him with no other option. “Of course. No problem.”

“Great!” she exclaimed. “Let me grab my things and we can go.”

She led them out of the bathroom, peeking around the corners to make sure no one would see them. They walked briskly down the hall and to her room. She knocked and seemed relieved to hear no answer.

“Got a roommate,” she offered as an explanation. “Come on!” she beckoned them inside and closed the door. She picked up some clothes and then looked at the two men pointedly. “Turn around while I get dressed.” Dean suppressed a smile as Castiel opened his mouth, clearly to ask ‘why?’, before Dean just grabbed his arm and spun him around. “How did you find me?”

Cas again seemed poised to answer but Dean preempted him, deciding that revealing the existence of angels might be a bit too much for the woman right now. “I was trying to find Sam, tracked him to the bar in Garber. Convinced your boss to give me your name. Eventually found the police reports and was able to hack your medical records. I’m sorry for doing that, but finding my brother is my priority.”

“You can turn around now,” she stated quietly, grabbing a bag and throwing in her belongings carelessly. “I totally get it, Dean, I understand. And you need to find him, it’s… it’s bad…” She was tearing up again and her grief was doing nothing to quell Dean’s ever-growing anxiety.

“What happened?” Cas asked when Dean found himself unable to speak.

“It’s a long story,” she replied, obviously struggling to calm herself down. “Can we go before I start? Don’t want my crying to give us away as we flee the scene.” She smiled sadly.

Dean bit his lip, already seeing why she and her brother had clicked. He nodded. “Thing is, we won’t be making a great escape. I’ll explain it in a second, but for now, just take Cas’s hand, and trust us.”

Lindsey sniffed and stood tall, her bag slung over her shoulder in a show of attempted confidence. She grasped Castiel’s outstretched hand. Cas put his hand on Dean and then they were gone. 

* * *

Dean found himself winded and staggered to the couch immediately. Two angel flights in fifteen minutes were definitely gonna do a number on all his internal processes. Lindsey gasped at the new surroundings, seemingly unfazed by the physical weirdness of divine teleportation.

“What… How… I…”

Castiel bobbed his head in sympathy. “I am an angel of the Lord. We just flew, though our ‘flying’ is more akin to the bending of spacetime to meet our needs.”

She stared at him and blinked a few times before letting her bag slump to the floor. “That… Well, I guess that makes sense. If there are demons, then there would be angels…”

Dean instantly suppressed his bodily complaints and focused on Lindsey. “You know about demons?!”

She gulped and found her way to a seat. “I know a whole lot more than that…” She paused and looked down, preparing herself. She took a deep breath. “Let me start from the beginning.”

Before she got a chance to say anything, Bobby wheeled himself in and glared at Dean. “You’re not gonna introduce me to our guest or offer her anything? Thought we raised you better than that, boy!”

Dean ducked his head and inspected the floor. “Sorry, Bobby.”

“Wait, are you Bobby Singer?!” Lindsey exclaimed.

The older hunter seemed confused. “Yeah, at your service…”

Lindsey smiled weakly. “Sam, he…” She swallowed again and steadied herself. “One of the last things he said to me was to find you. And I tried, I did, I just couldn’t, not with what happened and…”

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re here now. Why did Sam want you to find me?”

“He said I had to find you, that you were a,” she hurried out, “that you were a hunter and that you would teach me what I needed to know to protect myself.”

Bobby nodded. _Always looking out for others even though he’s the one who needs help!_ “Yeah, that sounds like him… Can you tell us what happened?”

She nodded and inhaled deeply, staring at the floor. “Sam had always been super _misterioso_ ever since he showed up but I didn’t think it was anything more than a front. He didn’t really talk, would just come in, work his shift and any overtime that was offered and then some, and disappear.”

_Sam not talking? Is that even possible for him?_ Dean thought to himself, almost needing to suppress a smirk until he remembered how few words would sometimes come out of a sullen teenage Sammy, especially when he didn’t have time to do his homework because a hunt didn’t go exactly as planned. _Like they ever do!_

“One day this group of guys came in, said they were hunting buddies with Sam’s dad. They seemed friendly, had a few beers, left without a fuss. After close, I guess they came back, the tall black guy, Reggie, grabbed me when I was taking out the trash and threatened me with a knife, and dragged me inside. Another guy was in there… Sam got Reggie to put the knife down then said that ‘what the demon said, it’s all true’ and then they made Sam admit what happened – that he started the Apocalypse.”

_Finally, a fucking lead!_ Dean tried to remember a Reggie but no one came to mind. He was shocked Lindsey was handling this so well, though considering they’d found her in a rehab center, maybe she wasn’t really doing that well.

“Lindsey,” Bobby rasped, his voice wavering. “The other man with Reggie, was he short with blonde hair and a gruff attitude?”

Lindsey nodded adamantly. “Yeah, exactly like that. He and Reggie seemed to be partners, with another guy named Steve, but from what I could tell, demons killed Steve.”

Bobby hunched over in his wheelchair and covered his face with his hands. “Oh God, this is all my fault!”

“What?! How could this be your fault?” Dean’s attention was laser focused on Bobby.

The older hunter was still for a few more moments before lowering his hands. “Sam – there was, he–” Bobby took a deep breath then started again. “Sam called me to report some demon signs. I told him he should take care of it, but he wanted to stay out of it. So I called up another hunter I knew, Tim Janklow, and gave him the job. I didn’t think he’d be capable of anything like this but—”

Dean inhaled to release a shout but Lindsey interrupted him. “He actually said something about that. The blonde guy, uh, Tim wanted Sam to drink something and Sam refused. He threatened—"

Dean blanched but tried to maintain his composure. “Could you tell what it was?”

“It was in a little vial… It looked almost black in the light. He said it was ‘go juice’, that Sam would drink it and ‘hulk out’.”

Dean turned away and ran his hand through his hair, doing his best to push down the panic rising in him. These hunters knew all about Sam, the Apocalypse, and demon blood. No way this was ending well for Sammy.

Lindsey watched Dean pace anxiously. “They told him to drink it or they’d kill me. Sam said ‘you wouldn’t do that’ but Tim just responded something like ‘It’s funny how watching your best friend die changes that.’ Sam looked real scared, then they started fighting and they pinned him and forced his mouth open and poured it in.”

_God, Sammy, I never should have left you alone._ Dean clenched his jaw so hard his teeth started to ache.

“But Sam spit it out into Tim’s eyes and fought ‘em off and he was gonna kill Tim with Reggie’s knife then he looked at me and he stopped.” She paused to wipe a single tear away from her cheek. Dean felt his chest fill with pride when he heard Sam had spit it out. He’d been so hard on Sam recently, and rightly so, but he was still proud his brother would choose to do the right thing, even when it must be difficult. “As bad as it sounds, I wish he’d done it. Maybe he’d be okay right now...”

Still facing away from Lindsey, Dean asked “then what happened?”

“He told them to leave and they said they’d be back. And they were… Sam helped me calm down and clean up then told me he’d be gone by morning. I thought it was over. But Reggie was in my apartment when I got home… He grabbed me and told me if I tried to scream or get away, they’d kill me _and_ Sam, when they got him.”

“Lindsey, I am so sorry you got dragged into all this. This is my fault. I sent Tim and Reggie there, thought they’d be able to handle it…” Bobby looked crestfallen and defeated.

Lindsey sniffled and smiled weakly. “It’s not your fault these guys are crazy. It’s not Sam’s fault either.”

Dean turned back around and focused on Lindsey, unable to spare a glance towards Bobby without exploding. “How’d they get Sam?” he forced out.

“Tim followed him home. Reggie brought me back and then they waited til Sam left his place. They followed him on the highway til he pulled over at a gas station. While he was inside, Tim put something in his gas tank that caused the engine to seize up later. They jumped him on the side of the road and put him in the trunk. They must have knocked him out because I didn’t hear anything.”

“What did they want?” Bobby murmured.

“Tim wanted Sam to kill the demons that killed his friend. We drove to a house and they dragged Sam out, then used me as collateral to force Sam to play along. This man came out, it had to be the demon because he had black eyes, and before I knew it, Sam had his arm stretched out and the demon was like frozen, then this black smoke was pouring out of his mouth and into the ground.”

“Dammit!” Dean yelled, fury and worry fueling his strength as his arm swiped several stacks of books and papers off a desk. Lindsey and Bobby jumped in their seats and stared at Dean. “He’s back on the blood, the exact thing we split up to avoid in the first place!”

“It wasn’t his choice!” Lindsey defended. “He only did it because of me!”

Dean let out a harsh breath through pursed lips and forced himself to calm a fraction. “I know, I know, it’s just, this is a lot to take in…”

“I haven’t even gotten to the worst part…” Lindsey said quietly.

Dean’s head snapped over to scrutinize her face. “What?” he snarled.

Lindsey flinched and put her head down.

“Dean,” Bobby growled. “This ain’t easy for any of us. We should let her finish then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Dean nodded and sat down again, his lips pressed in a thin, pale line.

“Sam went inside and Tim followed him. I heard gun shots and Reggie brought me back to the car before I could tell if Sam was alright. I thought they’d killed him, but he was alive, I guess he was just unconscious. They brought us to an empty house and put us in the basement. They—” Her voice faltered and she wiped away another tear. “They tortured him for information about Lucifer and the Apocalypse. It just seemed to make them more and more angry and Tim was just wailing on him… Sam seemed real out of it, he freaked out when I went to check on him. Later he told me he was hallucinating that I was a demon named Lilith.”

Dean and Bobby exchanged grieving looks. Neither were sure how much more they could take.

“When he seemed a little more glued in, Sam, God, he, it was so sweet, he was so focused on trying to make sure I was okay and figuring out how I would escape. He didn’t care about himself at all.”

Both a familiar warmth and piercing fear spread through Dean. It was a relief to hear that his real brother, the generous, selfless, nameless hero, was still in there. He’d had plenty of reasons to doubt the good side of Sam still existed. But it could also mean that Sam was giving up, that he knew he wouldn’t make it out of this, so he was willing to sacrifice himself for Lindsey. That wasn’t a thought Dean wanted to entertain any longer than necessary. “Then what? Did he get you out?”

“Well, kind of. They overheard us talking and they made a deal: if Sam cooperated with whatever they wanted, and didn’t try to fight, they’d give me a chance to escape. I told Sam not to but he agreed. Turns out they wanted to use Sam as bait for something… They took us to this clearing by an abandoned mine and tied us both to a post in the middle. Then, like they were doing us a favor or something, they…” Lindsey glanced up at Dean then back to the floor, “they shot him in the knee.”

“Fuck!” Dean cried out and Bobby just winced in sympathy.

“Sam said it was so the monster would focus on him and I’d have a chance to get away…” Tears were dripping more steadily now, her eyes becoming red. “He told me to find you, Bobby, because you’d know what to do, know how to keep me safe. Then this eerie sound came out of the woods, and got so loud we felt like our eardrums were gonna burst. Sam cried out and said something stabbed him.” Tears began flowing in earnest and sobs started choking her voice. “Then this… _thing_ floated out… it had glowing red eyes and thin skin covering its bones. Sam said it was there for him. It had this club and it swung it at the post, breaking it. It grabbed Sam and I wanted to— I tried—but he told me to run and not look back! It was dragging him away and there was so much blood and, and…” Her throat locked up and she crunched in on herself.

“Dean!” Bobby urged, “she’s hyperventilating!”

Dean shook himself out of his stupor and stepped over to her, rubbing her back and whispering the sweet nothings he wished he could be giving to Sam instead. “C’mon, breathe with me, in, out, in, out, in, out… It’ll be okay, I got ya, breathe, breathe…”

Several minutes of this calmed her enough so that she could speak again. She glanced up at Dean. “I’m guessing you haven’t found him yet…” she panted through weak sobs.

Dean shook his head. “No, we haven’t, but we’re pretty sure he’s still alive.” _He has to be_.

“So now what?” she asked, her teary eyes pleading with Dean for an answer.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “Well, first thing to do would be call up Tim and Reggie.” He dragged his eyes to study Bobby’s face, forcing himself to temper his glare.

Bobby ducked his gaze to the floor. “I had already called them while looking for Sam. They said the last time they’d seen him was Garber.”

“Fucking liars!” Dean shouted, resisting the urge to destroy something. “Call them again.”

Bobby reached over for his phone and address book. He dialed the number and put it on speakerphone. “ _The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected…_ ”

This time Dean gave in and toppled another stack of books.

“What if you go to the Roadhouse? With the amount of traffic there, I’m sure you’ll get a lead,” Bobby offered quietly.

“What’s the Roadhouse?” Lindsey asked.

“Hunter bar. Lots of people stop in for information, weapons exchanges, shoot the shit,” Bobby explained.

Lindsey nodded. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

Dean whipped his head to look at her. “Wait, what?”

She stood and stared at Dean defiantly. “You really think I’m gonna just let this go? Ditch Sam? No, I’m helping you find him! So let’s go to the Roadhouse.”

“But you’re not a hunter…”

“No, but I can tend a bar.”

He narrowed her eyes, assessing her. “Is that a good idea? Considering we just busted you out of rehab.”

She looked away and sniffed, before crossing her arms and composing herself. “I got this. I messed up before. But I can do this, for Sam.”

“How’d you end up in that place anyway?”

Lindsey looked down and let her hair fall in front of her face to shield her eyes. “I ran til I found a road. I picked a direction and followed the road that way. It was the middle of night in the middle of nowhere, so no one came by. I was scared that if anyone did, it might be Tim and Reggie coming to check on us, so I’m not sure I woulda flagged down a car anyway. I finally came across a bar on the outskirts of town… I thought I’d be okay to go in and use their phone, but I was so shaken up I couldn’t even talk. I told myself I’d have just one drink to calm my nerves… well… Not soon after, I’m blackout drunk and causing a ruckus so they call the cops. The cops then call my family and they send me to the nearest rehab in Lincoln. Been there ever since. I tried telling one of the counsellors what happened and they said I must have severe alcohol-induced brain damage, so they wouldn’t release me under my own power. I know they’re just trying to help, but no one who’s seen this stuff can be completely sane and sober all the time!”

“Yeah, we hear ya,” Dean admitted and Bobby nodded in agreement. “We’ve both been through things no one should have to bear…”

They sat in silence for a long moment, each recollecting their own experienced horrors.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Let’s do it. We’ll go to the Roadhouse and see if we can get anything useful. I don’t know what else to do…”

Lindsey leaned forward and grabbed his free hand, a determined grimace on her face. “We’ll find him. I know we will. Let’s go.”

* * *

  
Trapped within his own mind, he could do nothing but watch as his body was degraded by every form of abuse imaginable. Drawing on his college psychology course, he suspected his mind had splintered as a means to protect itself but it was pointless: he still saw what the other parts of him experienced. He knew Lucifer was behind it somehow, probably just one more way the archangel was trying to force him into saying ‘yes’.

Lucifer visited more frequently, even when he wasn’t resurrecting him, but he was determined to ignore the fallen angel. He would turn and walk to the opposite side of his frozen prison.

So Lucifer started making the open area smaller and smaller.

Eventually he was unable to walk away when Lucifer appeared, completely surrounded by crystal clear ice. He could still face away from him though, and he exercised whatever control he had. Lucifer would sigh in disappointment and wait for a while, before he got bored and left.

Until right after the epic La Crosse debacle. When Lucifer showed this time, he heard fingers snap and felt sudden pressure around his boots. Ice had grown to encapsulate his feet up to his ankles. He couldn’t even bend down to scratch at the ice. He was well and truly fucked.

Lucifer sauntered into his field of view, coming to a stop in front of him. Suddenly grateful for the thick barrier separating him from the angel, he thought about what he could do to ignore him now. Lucifer started talking and he knew he had to blot out the voice. Listening to the fallen angel would be his undoing. He couldn’t move his hands but he could still move his lips.

So he sang.

The first fitting song that came to mind was from a band Jess used to listen to. It stabbed a little dagger of pain through his heart, but he almost appreciated the reminder of his love and it focused him. The song was ‘Broken Crown’ by Mumford and Sons. He glared at Lucifer and sang it at the fallen angel, changing the lyrics to convey his challenge to Lucifer’s hold over him.

_“Touch my mouth and hold my tongue_

_I’ll never be your chosen one_

I’d rather be dead _, safe and tucked away_

_Well, you can’t tempt me if I don’t see the day_

_The pull on my flesh was just too strong_

(And it truly had been. He had let himself become addicted to demon blood, addicted to the power and control it gave him.)

_It stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_

_Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_

_‘Cause when I open my body, I breathe a lie_

(For all Lucifer’s sweet promises, he knew that to accept the archangel would mean the end of himself and everything he ever loved.)

_I will not speak of your sin_

_There was a way out for_ you

(Couldn’t Lucifer just ask for forgiveness? Wasn’t God supposed to be forgiving? And least in the New Testament He was. But Lucifer had been far too vain for bow down in the first place; eons in the cage were unlikely to soften his heart.)

_The mirror shows not_

_Your values are all shot_

(The angel had convinced himself of his righteousness. There was no reasoning with him.)

_But oh, my heart was flawed_

_I knew my weakness_

(And oh how well he knew it! Every mistake he’d ever made, big and small, played on an endless loop in his head, the relentless waves of failure crashing on the eroding bluffs of his ego.)

_So hold my hand_

_Consign me not to darkness_

(The irony of ironies: Lucifer, the Light Bringer, would damn the world to darkness and destruction.)

_So crawl on my belly till the sun goes down_

_I’ll never wear your broken crown_

_I took the road and I fucked it all the way_

(He thought he’d been on the virtuous path, but he had been deceived at every turn. Now he was alone, truly adrift, fighting a losing battle against one of God’s first creations.)

_Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace_

(Yeah, Lucifer may be an angel and he may have grace, but his grace was the farthest thing from angelic. At times, he could feel the sinister energy embracing the shivering fragments of his soul, seeking a way in. Though the archangel would never admit it, he was growing desperate for his vessel to relinquish control.)

_So crawl on my belly till the sun goes down_

_I’ll never wear your broken crown_

_I can take the road and I can fuck it all the way_

(He’d messed up everything else so far, why not also ruin the angels’ plans for the Apocalypse?)

_But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate_

(And his last choice was to say ‘no’.)


	20. Leads

The two drove without saying a word for the first hour and a half, only Dean’s cassette tapes filling the silence. Dean hadn’t failed to notice the occasional twitch of Lindsey’s hand towards the volume button, but every time she pulled it back. Dean knew he was probably being rude but his heart hurt too much to even consider talking more about Sam.

But Lindsey clearly felt otherwise. She steadied herself and reached forward, turning the dial and nearly silencing Motorhead. She took a deep breath and began. “I know he did some bad things and there’s so much I don’t know, but your brother’s a good guy. He always treated me with so much respect, even got rid of a few assholes who tried to get overly friendly. He was really good at looking out for people, made sure they wouldn’t drive drunk. He even drove some people home occasionally. I guess what I’m trying to say is—”

“Stop, please,” Dean begged. “We’re talking about him like he’s dead and I—I just can’t do that. He’s not dead. He can’t be.”

“Oh my God, no, that’s not what I was aiming for! I’m so sorry. I meant to say that he knows he messed up but he’s doing his best to make up for it. I’ve been addicted, I know what it’s like to struggle against that overpowering tide. And he thought he was doing the right thing by killing that demon! I’m not saying it’s not his fault, but I get it, and I get him. I also get why you were so pissed at him. I would be, too. But I don’t think he ever did it to hurt _you_ , Dean. He did it because he thought it was required of him. Does that make sense?”

Dean swallowed against the growing knot in his throat and nodded. Despite what he’d initially thought when his passenger had opened her mouth, it actually helped to have Lindsey’s perspective. Hearing from someone else that Sam had never meant to damage their relationship was more of a relief than he would have expected. “Thanks, Lindsey. I, uh, I guess I didn’t know I needed that.”

She smiled weakly. “You’ll have a chance to make it right. I know it. We’re going to find him. I’m not stopping until we do.”

“That makes two of us.”

* * *

They fell into an uneasy routine centered around the Roadhouse. Ellen had rebuilt the bar with rooms on the second floor for hunters, which Dean and Lindsey rented. Lindsey worked at the bar for Ellen and kept her ear out for any useful information. When Dean wasn’t out following any leads that could be even remotely related to Sam, he’d serve as a general repairman and mechanic for Ellen and anyone else who needed it. Weeks turned to months and Dean was feeling his well of sanity run dry.

When Dean couldn’t sleep, which was most of the time, he just drove. It was the closest he could get to relaxing since… well, he wasn’t really sure when. Certainly before he knew Sam was missing, probably before he knew God had chosen him for some holy mission, maybe even before he found out about Azazel’s connection to Sam. Needless to say, he’d been operating under high stress for a _long_ time but he didn’t have the luxury of stopping and taking a break.

Instead, he’d slip into his precious Impala and let it take him away from the epic clusterfuck of a train wreck that was his life. When he turned the key and her engine growled to life, it was enough to discourage the constant milieu of thoughts that ceaselessly condensed in his mind: _Sam’s probably dead; It’s my fault; The world is ending; Michael wants to use me; I let Sam down; What’s the point anymore?; I can’t keep going; I wish Dad were here, he’d know what to do…_ The brief respite was enough to keep him fighting, but he felt the fire dying each and every day.

He was parked at the mouth of the entrance road to a deserted farm, taking the moment to appreciate the setting sun. He was laying against the windshield, listlessly staring at the reddening sky. His phone rang and despite having been let down so many times, a part of him still hoped it was Sam, that’d he’d escaped somehow, that he was calling Dean to come rescue him. He dug the device out of his pocket and sighed as he saw Bobby’s name light up the screen.

“Hey Bobby,” he answered cordially, tucking away his disappointment. “How you doing? How’s the leg?” Dean always tried to remember to ask Bobby how he was, worried the old man might be lonely. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Same as before. Useless. But I’ll live. Anything useful about Sam?”

“No, not yet. I’ve been all over tracking down anything and everything, but nothing. I don’t know what to think. I—” he paused, unsure whether he wanted to express his deepest fear out loud.

“What, son?” Bobby prodded.

“I’m not sure he’s even alive anymore. I used to be so sure, like I could _feel_ that he was still out there somewhere, but I don’t know now, and I’m worried…” Dean felt his eyes water but he was too tired to care.

“Don’t lose hope. You once told me Cas said the angels would know if he were dead. I trust him. He’s out there, we just gotta keep looking.”

A silent tear slipped down his face as he nodded mutely. “You’re right… I… I’ll keep trying.”

“That’s all we can do. I’ll let you know if I get anything useful.”

“Me, too. See ya, Bobby.”

“Bye, Dean.”

He let his arm fall away and continued peering at the watercolor clouds. What would he do if Sam were dead? He doubted he could do another demon deal. Would Sam even want to come back? Dean doubted that even more. His brother was strong, but the hunters had captured him more than seven months ago. That was a long time to be held against your will being forced to do God knows what. What kind of person would Sam be if they ever got him back? Would he be—

The phone rang again and Dean rolled his eyes, figuring Bobby had forgotten to tell him something and was calling back. He answered without looking and was surprised to hear Lindsey’s hurried voice.

“Dean? It’s Lindsey. You need to come to the Roadhouse right now. It’s important. It’s about Sam. Find me as soon as you get here.”

* * *

Dean stared at the dregs of his beer, at a loss for what to do next. Bobby, Ellen, Rufus, Lindsey, and anyone else he trusted were looking for signs of Tim, Reggie, or Sam’s whereabouts, but he didn’t have much hope. His circle of hunters was good, but these people were apparently better. _Freak on a leash._ The words spun mercilessly in his head.

A glass slammed down loudly in front of him. He flinched and looked up, Lindsey’s annoyed form filling his view.

“Dean, there you are! I told you to come find me the second you got here!”

He wiped a hand down his face, exhaustion evident on his pale, taut features. “Sorry, Linds, Ellen said you were busy changing out some kegs and then I kinda forgot why I even came here. So damn tired. I’m not even sure what day it is or how long it’s been since he… since he was…” He looked up at the young woman and sympathy softened her hard stare. She sat down across from him and put a hand on his.

“I know, I know. But I wanted you here because I think this group of hunters might have interacted with Sam.” She tilted her head in their direction and Dean turned to look, his normal cautious stealth thrown to the wind.

The combination of hope and a roar of laughter from a rowdy table of men nearby snapped him out of his morose detachment. Dean focused all his attention and listened. An alcohol-charged man raised his voice over the group and continued his story, a key section of his monologue piercing Dean’s demoralized apathy. “… demons. So many demons. Thought we were toast. Then they open the kennel and out comes this mangy dude, though was hard to tell cuz his hair was so long!”

Dean twisted back to look at Lindsey, his eyes wide. “They _have_ to be talking about Sam. A kennel?!” She nodded and frowned. Dean felt his blood start to simmer but forced himself to stay calm and listen for more information.

“You just thought he was a girl cuz it’s been so long since you’ve slept with anyone!” another hunter jibed.

“Yeah, whatever, Rick. Anyway, they bring this guy out and say he’s their secret weapon. They inject him with some red shit, saying it’s gonna make him a demon killing machine. They shove him out into the street and then Tim starts hollering for the demons.”

“They’re _injecting_ him with demon blood?! Oh, God, Sammy…” Dean barely resisted the urge to breakdown right then and there.

“Six of the evil fuckers come out and head towards us. Their eyes go black and Chris here is about to shit himself.” The man in question put his head down and nodded in mock-shame. “He raises his hand and black smoke starts pouring from their mouths. Never seen anything like it. The smoke goes into the ground and the people are still alive, demon free!”

“That sounds like bullshit. I’ve never seen anything that can do that!” grumbled a man in the corner of the booth.

“No, it’s true,” Chris retorted. 

The doubter shook his head in disbelief. “What the hell has that kind of juice?”

“A goddam monster, that’s what. A whole new breed of freak. But I’m leaving out the craziest bit: all this shit that’s going down right now, all this demon crap, the whole damn Apocalypse, it’s this kid’s fault. He started the Apocalypse!”

The other hunters at the table guffawed in disbelief. “No one person can start the Apocalypse, Raylan.”

“According to Tim, after those black-eyed bitches killed his hunting partner Steve, they got him to admit it. He started the Apocalypse. Said he broke the first and the last seal to free Lucifer from his prison in Hell. It’s his fault!”

_But you only broke the last one… Dammit, Sam, were you trying to protect me or some bullshit? Time to return the favor…_ Dean nodded subtly to Lindsey, steeled himself against his emotions, and rose from his seat.

“Take the beer and look tipsy, it’ll help you blend in,” she murmured and walked away.

He approached the booth languidly, his glass tipping slightly in his hand, hoping to give the appearance that he was fairly buzzed and thus not a threat. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard the same story. Rest of you better believe it.”

The story teller gave Dean a brief assessment before smiling. “See, I told you guys I wasn’t lying.” He held out his hand over the table. “Raylan Cramings.”

Dean took it and smiled in return. “Dean Wesson.”

“Pull up a seat and help me convince these doubting sons of bitches about what I saw,” Raylan offered.

Dean nodded and brought a stool over. He debated how much he should share about Sam, but decided not to blow his cover by telling a lie Raylan may see through. “No, it’s really true. That red stuff they inject him with is some sort of demon juice. It’s what gives him his abilities.” Murmurs and grimaces answered his information. “I guess sort of becoming a demon gives him power over them? That’s my theory anyway.”

Raylan stroked his beard as he mused. “That’s as good a theory as I’ve ever heard.”

“What I don’t get is how they control him. If he’s strong enough to take down demons, why doesn’t he hurt them?”

Chris, who had so far been fairly quiet, spoke up. “Tim says the thing used to be human before it turned into whatever the hell it is now. If it bleeds, you can hurt it. You can kill it, right? Except, they found out they can’t.”

_It?!_ Dean’s attention was now impossibly more laser focused. “They can’t what?”

“Kill it,” Chris responded with a smirk. “You guys hear how angels need meat suits to be on earth?” Most of the other hunters nodded. “Well, turns out this freak is Lucifer’s meat suit, and no matter what, Lucifer won’t let it die.”

The blood drained from Dean’s face. The other hunters started babbling excitedly but it was all white noise to him. “What do you mean ‘no matter what’?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice and pretend half-interest. He took a heavy swig of his beer to calm his convulsing throat then moved his hands under the table to hide their shaking.

Raylan smiled and began to dig around in his pocket. “You asked how they control him?” He chuckled to himself. “After he’s done killing the demons or whatever they’re hunting that day, and make him clean up the scene, they usually kill him. Most effective way is to blast his head off!” Dean’s stomach roiled and he dug his nails into his palms. “Gives them a few hours before he wakes up in one piece again. They’ve done some experimenting but he always comes back.”

Dean felt himself detaching from his body, unwilling to accept the current situation as reality. _Experimenting? Oh, God, Sammy…_ Drawing his phone from his pocket, Raylan scrolled through a few pictures and then grinned as he stopped on one.

“The best part? He’s basically an immortal punching bag! The demon blood swilling freak who started the Apocalypse is just waiting for each and every hunter to break his pretty little face. Tim will give any hunter a free beating, but killing him costs a few bucks. So worth it though.”

Dean bit his tongue to stop himself from exploding. _This couldn’t be happening. Not to Sam._ Raylan handed the phone to his right so Dean was the last to see it. By the sounds of admiration the other hunters were emitting, Dean knew he wouldn’t like what he saw. But he was in no way prepared for what the tiny device held.

The first thing he noticed was a gaunt body ( _that couldn’t possibly be Sam, right? Oh, God, it looks like him, albeit much, much thinner_ ) positioned between Raylan and another man he vaguely recognized, the two hunters posing like Sam was their prize kill. Then he noticed all the blood. Bright red overlaid the dark crimson of dried blood. A small pool was beneath Sam’s feet which meant that – _oh my God_ – Sam was hanging from a branch, razor wire biting deep into his neck, blood slicking down from the wounds. Despite his overwhelming desire to smash the phone, he looked closer. Barbed wire tethered his brother’s wrists and ankles together, though the joints were horribly disfigured. Fingers bent in every direction. What little was left of his clothing did nothing to hide the myriad bruises and gashes littering his flesh, many of them healing, others were scars. Bracing himself, Dean dragged his gaze up to Sam’s face. What looked like cigarette burns spelled ‘EVIL’ across his cheeks and ‘TRAITOR’ was carved into his forehead. Worst of all, his eyes were open and staring at the camera. That was the moment when Dean irrevocably decided that humans were far worse than demons and angels and Hell.

“He was still alive when we took that pic,” Raylan boasted proudly. “Then I attached the razor wire to my truck and took his head clean off! Was really pretty cool…” His voice had a hint of longing and something in Dean snapped.

Launching himself up from his seat, he flipped the table in his rage. “What the FUCK is wrong with you people?!” he shouted. The place fell silent as everyone stopped to look at him. “Monster or not, this is disgusting! This is wrong! Why do you enjoy this?!”

Raylan stood up and leaned into Dean’s space. “Because he started the end of world! Don’t you think that’s something he should suffer for?! What’s it to you anyway? He your demon lover or something?”

“No! He’s—”

“Dean!” Ellen shouted and he snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t even noticed her approach but now she was dragging him away, shock making him easy to direct.

“Hey, he still has my phone!” the irritated hunter called after them.

“I’ll deal with you in a second!” Ellen snapped over her shoulder.

Lindsey beckoned them over and Ellen pulled Dean along before pushing him behind the bar. “What the hell just happened? You know I don’t appreciate fights in my bar.” She was firm but non-accusatory.

She tried to meet his eyes but Dean’s body was too numb to move. Instead he stared at the ground. “He—they… Ellen, the hunters who have Sam are torturing him. Apparently he won’t stay dead because he’s Lucifer’s vessel, so they…” he choked on a sob, “they torture him until he dies and then Lucifer resurrects him so they can start all over. That bastard over there did this to him.” He held up the phone for Ellen to see. She hesitantly accepted it then instantly regretted doing so. She thrust the phone back as she turned away and vomited into the sink. Lindsey grabbed it before Dean could move and a horrible keening sound, like that of a child who had just found her beloved family pet run over, ripped from her throat. Dean watched in slow motion as her legs gave out and she slipped downwards. He couldn’t force his body to react, it wasn’t listening to his commands, every nerve was wrapped up in a heartwrenching screaming litany of _Sam Sam Sam!_ It took Dean a moment to realize what the flutter of wings and movement meant as his eyes registered Castiel catching her by the armpits and stopping her head from hitting the ground. Cas let her slide to the floor.

“Oh my God, this is all my fault, he did this to save me and now, oh God, oh God, oh God…” Lindsey sobbed from the ground.

Dean avoided the angel’s gaze as a violent tangle of emotions whirled within him. He knew he should calm down Lindsey and Ellen then interrogate the man that had brutally murdered his brother. He went down to Lindsey and put a hand on her shoulder. Ellen knelt beside him and he wrapped the two women in a shaking embrace, his willpower strung taut like a constricting noose; it took all his self-control to stop himself from gunning down all the hunters at that table.

“Ellen,” Dean whispered, his throat too tight to speak any louder. “Take all my weapons. I need to talk to him but I… I don’t trust myself.”

“Sweetie,” Ellen murmured, pressing Dean’s head into her chest. “Don’t do this to yourself. Let me do it, or Castiel.”

Dean leaned into the comfort for a moment before pushing back and looking Ellen in the eye. “No, I have to do this. For Sam. This man ripped Sammy to shreds… And I’d be willing to bet my life he knows where Tim and Reggie are. I have to do this. I have to.”

Ellen watched as Dean transformed the devastating grief to cold rage, just one more weapon in his expansive arsenal. She knew better than to stop him. “Dean, just… Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret later.”

“I won’t let him,” Cas replied solemnly.

A caustic snort was Dean’s response. “Not that I’d ever regret ganking a monster like him…” _And they’d thought Sam was the monster. They’ve never seen what I can do!_ “But I promise I won’t kill him. Doesn’t mean _he_ won’t regret what he did!” Dean shifted to grab the phone from Lindsey’s hand. “Look after her, will ya?” he asked Ellen as he stood up, not even bothering to get her response. “You!” He pointed at Raylan, who looked irritated and confused. “In the back, now!”

The other hunters moved to join their comrade, weapons drawn. The few remaining non-hunters in the bar scrambled out of the building. Dean paid them no attention. “No! Only him. You’ll all get a turn if you want it!” Dean spat.

“More fun to do this all together. Maybe you want a taste of what your demon lover got?” Chris taunted, his grin hungry. Castiel stood and moved to Dean’s side. Chris took a long second to look the trenchcoated man up and down, clearly assessing his worth as a fighter. “What, you feeling left out, buddy?”

“I would advise you heed this man’s requests,” Castiel said, completely unfazed.

Their adversaries looked dubious. “Or what? He’s gonna scream and cry some more?” the doubter jibed.

“No, it shall be you who will scream and cry!” Cas took a step forward then let his grace shine through. As the shadows of his wings flared out, the wind whipped up within the closed space and a low rumbling caused all the bottles to clink together. The lights flickered and furniture shook. The hunters hunched in on themselves, their eyes dashing about the room.

“Okay, okay!” Raylan yelled at the indoor maelstrom, clearly terrified. Dean did his best to suppress a laughing smirk when everything stopped in an instant. It wasn’t that he didn’t remember the terror and the disbelief; no, that was a _very_ clear memory. Castiel appearing in that barn amidst a shower of sparks, lightning and thunder all around as he revealed his wings. Nah, he hadn’t forgotten, it just felt good to be in the know, for once.

The previously arrogant band of men now stood cowering, their weapons still out but lilting in their hands like two-week-old bouquets. Their faces were a mix of awe, confusion, and fear. _No time for processing your feelings, boys. I got a little brother to save!_

Dean held his hands out to the side. “Look, I’m unarmed. Just wanna have a little chat.”

Raylan nodded blankly, left his gun on the table, and walked through an employee only door. Dean turned and followed, sparing Cas an amused smile and a silently mouthed “thank you”. 

As soon as they were through the door, Raylan spun and stepped into Dean’s space. “Who the fuck are you? Why are you so interested in some demonic freak? What’s he to you?”

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he growled and the man’s eyes widened. “And he’s not just some demonic freak, he’s my brother.”

“What?” Raylan gasped.

“Yeah, that _man_ you _murdered_ for shits and giggles was my little brother, Sam, so you’re damn lucky I made a promise not to hurt you. ‘Cause there is nothing I would like more than to payback even a _fraction_ of what you did to him.”

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know!”

“Then what? You thought he was some monster you could torture for fun? That he didn’t matter to anyone?”

“He can kill demons with his mind! He can’t die! That’s hardly normal. They told us was some kind of demon spawn and that he started the Apocalypse.” He paused then gave Dean a stern look. “And you’re really gonna try and preach that shit to me? How many creatures have you snuffed without a second thought to their families or whatever?”

The hypocrisy struck Dean to the core but he couldn’t focus on that now. “But I never, ever tortured them. What you did is sick and twisted.”

The hunter dropped his gaze. “It’s different knowing he’s actually human…”

“It shouldn’t be. Monsters can’t help what they are. They shouldn’t be punished for what they are unless they’re hurting someone.”

“My, what would your father say about this softie approach to hunting.”

Dean felt his jaw twitch despite himself. “I’d say he would have a thing or two he could learn from Sam.” He glared at the hunter, the fire in his eyes dissuading Raylan from challenging him. He needed to focus on extracting information, not discussing hunting philosophies. “Do you know where he is?”

“No. My, uh, encounter with him was a few weeks ago. They move around a lot.”

“‘They’ being Tim and Reggie?”

“Wait, you already know about them?”

“Yeah, but I can’t fucking find them anywhere.”

“They’ve pretty much gone underground. They are extremely careful about who knows about the fre—your brother.” The tick flared more violently and Dean rubbed his cheek to relieve it. “I have to get their okay before I tell anyone about them.”

“And then people can get in touch to sign up to kill him?”

“Pretty much. And, uh, fair warning, it’s not just that. They have a sort of fight club. They’ll put him in a cage with some supernatural creature or some hunters and let them duke it out.”

“What?!” Dean roared, his hands itching for something to destroy.

Raylan hunched down a bit, trying to make himself small in the face of Dean’s wrath.

“They say everyone gets to take a swing because he started the end of the world. That he deserves to suffer.”

“Oh my God, Sammy…” Dean murmured. Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, they always did. “Find out where they’re gonna be next.”

“Tim and Reggie?”

“Yeah.”

Raylan nodded. “I can call them and ask.”

Dean pulled the phone out of his pocket and held it up. “You try anything fishy, you tip them off somehow, and you’ll regret it.”

“I promise, I won’t. I don’t want any trouble with you, man.”

“Good. And be sure to put it on speaker.”

Dean passed him the device and the hunter gingerly took it. He found the number and pressed dial. He glanced at Dean as he pressed speaker then down at the floor.

“Raylan! How are you?”

“Hey Tim, I’m good. I, uh, you know, I really enjoyed getting to mess with that freak you have.” Dean knew it was part of the act but he still wanted to punch the guy. “I haven’t gotten a chance to go to one of those hunter fight clubs yet. Got any coming up?”

“Yeah, actually, we do. There’s some demon activity outside of Davenport, Iowa. Planning on stopping in Cedar Rapids for the night on Tuesday. We got a place already. I’ll text you the address. Just so you know, Roy and Walt have first dibs.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. See you Tuesday.” He ended the call and looked up at Dean. “Well, that was easy.” The phone buzzed and Dean held his hand out for the phone.

Raylan passed it over and Dean copied down both the address and the phone number and slipped the sheet in his pocket. Then he broke the phone in half.

The man opened his mouth to complain but Dean stepped in close, their noses almost touching. “You do anything to get in my way, anything that stops me from getting to my brother, and I’ll snap more than just your phone.” 

Raylan nodded his understanding and scuttled out before Dean had the chance to change his mind.

* * *

Its existence – it wouldn’t call it _life_ – consisted of numbness, agony, orders, and the occasional thrill of fire in its veins, followed by wretched emptiness. Sometimes the pain went on for what felt like its entire time on this stain of a planet. Anger and hate and violence swirled around it, but those things drifted away as quickly as they came, melting into the eternal background of primordial suffering. Even its maker didn’t come around anymore. It vaguely wondered if He was ashamed of its weakness, of how quickly its will had been broken, that it had been reduced to this, whatever _this_ was. It knew He wanted something from it, something important, but the only word it knew was ‘no.’ He wanted something else, but all it had to offer was ‘no.’

That was the word it screamed again and again as it was antagonized, beaten, conquered, degraded, and mutilated. ‘No’ was the fruitless word it cried out both against the raging din of its attackers during the day and in the desperate silence of the barren night. ‘No’ was the only reason for existing and it had forgotten long ago why existence even mattered. But to something, someone, somewhere, it did, so it would keep saying ‘no’. 


	21. Reunion

Dean hurtled down the highway, not even bothering to check the speed limit. He was beyond caring about such simple, mundane things as human laws. If it had been up to him, he would have obliterated those monsters who claimed to be hunters. Especially Raylan. Dean’s eyes burned as he recalled Sam’s near-dead gaze, his body mutilated almost beyond recognition. The hunters’ amusement turned his stomach. How could a person do such a thing? The only allowable excuse was something from his own experience: if it was be tortured or torture someone else, as it was in Hell, and the person finally snapped and began torturing. But that wasn’t the case here. These people were tearing his brother apart _for fun_. What else had Sammy endured? His mind wandered back to Hell and he abruptly forced himself to stop thinking. He turned the music up as loud as it would go and solemnly drove on.

* * *

Dean burst into Bobby’s house without knocking, shouting his name.

The older hunter was in the kitchen, spoon laying idle in his cereal, abandoned for the sawn-off shotgun he was currently aiming at Dean.

“Goddammit Dean! You know better than to barge in here, unannounced! I coulda shot you, boy!”

Dean waved away Bobby’s reprimand. “Whatever, Bobby, it doesn’t matter. I got a solid lead on Sam.”

“What? Where?”

“There were these hunters at the Roadhouse—Lindsey overheard them. Tim and Reggie have been renting Sam out to whoever wants to beat the shit out of him. This one hunter showed me a picture of Sam, strung up like a twenty point buck. They—”

“Wait, slow down!” Bobby shoved his food away and pushed his wheelchair back from the table so he could face Dean properly. “They’re letting people beat him?” his voice was tight.

“It’s so much worse than that. According to these hunters, because Sam is Lucifer’s vessel, Lucifer won’t let him stay dead. So whenever these guys kill him, Sam comes back to life so they can start all over. Killing him has become a sport.”

At that, Bobby scrambled for the trashcan and threw up. Dean waited patiently, his mind oddly numb to the terrible news he was delivering. Perhaps his heart was too worn out. He handed Bobby a kitchen cloth. He wiped his mouth then grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured two generous glasses. Both hunters downed the volume in a single gulp before refilling.

“Can you tell at all how Sam is?”

“Probably not great!” Dean retorted and Bobby glared at him.

“You know what I mean. Is he even conscious this is happening to him?”

Dean shrugged. “His eyes were open and staring at the camera, so he has some sorta awareness. I don’t know. But the exciting thing is that they’re having another one of these ‘cage matches’, as they call them, in Cedar Rapids tomorrow night.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Cas and I go, at minimum, we zap in, snag Sam, get out. Best case, we do that and we kill all those sons of bitches.”

Bobby knew better than to argue with Dean when this degree of fury burned in the very core of his being. But he also knew Sam was at stake, too. “All that matters right now is getting Sam, don’t you think? Last thing you want is for Tim and Reggie to slip away with him ‘cause your priorities weren’t in order.”

“My priorities are in order!” Dean shouted as he slammed down the near-empty glass. “They have tortured and killed my brother countless times and you want to just let them go!”

“No, I don’t! I want to see Sam alive on this couch before we go after them! Revenge without having Sam back means nothing to me! And if you were thinking straight and weren’t so damn overtired and thinking with your trigger finger, you’d see that too!”

Dean’s eyes suddenly ducked to the floor and Bobby noticed the clear shift in Dean’s temperament.

Silence reigned for few moments as the gears turned in Bobby’s head. “Or are you just scared that what you’re gonna get back isn’t gonna be Sam?”

Dean slowly brought his gaze to meet Bobby’s and the older hunter didn’t miss the moisture building there. “How can he be? How can anyone go through that and not be messed up?”

Bobby sighed. “I’m sure he will be. But that’s what we’re here for. If you can handle Hell, he can handle this.”

“Yeah, because I’ve handled it so well,” Dean scoffed.

“But you’re still standing here, fighting, and that’s what matters. I don’t see no reason Sam can’t and won’t do the same. But only if you’re there backing him up. So I want you to go take some sleep aids and catch up on a few hours of rest so we can plan this out when you’re a little more level-headed.”

“Bobby—” Dean protested.

“I’m not saying it twice.” Bobby folded his arms and regarded Dean with a stern look.

“Fine!” Dean huffed then headed off towards the second floor, grumbling about being put in timeout but mentally grateful for the forced sleep.

* * *

Bobby, Dean, and Castiel had planned the rescue mission earlier that morning before Dean drove the five hours to Cedar Rapids. Dean parked on the street two blocks away from the address he’d copied from Raylan’s phone. A quick Google search had revealed it to be a dumpy bar in a rundown part of town. A ten second phone call brought Castiel to his side. The two set off from the car, Dean armed with a variety of weapons and Castiel armed with celestial intent. Even from a block away, they could hear the loud laughs and garrulous conversation of inebriated hunters loitering outside the bar. The jovial atmosphere only served to anger Dean further and he clenched his fist around his 1911. _Just another few hundred feet and these bastards are dead!_ So caught up in his own fantasies of revenge, he failed to notice Castiel panting and groaning and quickly outpaced him.

“Dean,” the angel gasped, and the human stopped, turning to look back.

“Cas? What’s wrong?” He trotted back to his friend.

“I can’t go much further. There is significant warding present.”

“Angel warding?”

“Yes. It is unlike any I have encountered before.”

Dean regarded him in silence for a few moments before clenching his jaw in irritation. “So what you’re saying is that I’m on my own.”

“Unless you can find a way to inactivate all the wards, unfortunately, yes.”

“Dammit!” Dean hissed. “I can’t take on all those hunters by myself! It’d be suicide!”

Castiel held his gaze evenly. “Perhaps this should be solely a reconnaissance mission, then.”

Dean ground his teeth together. “But we’re so damn close! He’s right there! And all those twisted hunters are here, too!” It would have sounded like a whine were it not for the visceral frustration making it a growl.

“Dean, focus. Do you care more about getting Sam back or getting revenge?”

The angel’s soft admonishment served its purpose and Dean’s aggravation receded. “You’re right. Sam first. So now what?”

“I suggest you bide your time until they leave, so you can follow them. Maybe engage with them when the numbers are a little more even. I cannot stay here much longer.”

Dean thought on that for a second, idly noting the sweat on Castiel’s vessel. “I have a better idea. Go to Bobby’s and see if he has a GPS tracking device. If he doesn’t, you ask him where to get one. I don’t care if you have to steal it, okay? Meet me back at the Impala.”

Castiel nodded and disappeared.

Dean made his way back to the Impala, where Castiel was already waiting for him, albeit still looking weary from the warding. He held up a small box and looked mildly pleased with himself. “I suppose I can add that to my list of commandments broken.”

Dean smirked. “Thought those were just for humans?”

Cas pondered that for a moment then shrugged. He passed the box to Dean. He pulled something else out of his pocket and presented it. “Bobby said you would also need this.”

“Superglue? Well, it will make hiding it somewhere inconspicuous easier…”

“Be careful, Dean. I cannot help you while you are here. Bobby recommended you follow them once they leave here and attempt your rescue mission. I can assist you then. I will be waiting for your call.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Cas. Here’s hoping.”

The angel fluttered out of view and Dean turned back towards the bar. All he had to do was find Tim’s car and plant the tracking device. How hard could that be?

* * *

Turned out finding Tim’s car was a little more difficult than he had planned. All of the vehicles here belonged to hunters, and as such, they were littered with weapons and supernatural symbols. It was like looking for one particular needle in a needle haystack. He skipped anything he could easily see into. He had picked the locks on seven cars and trucks with heavily tinted windows and found nothing except a lot of stained seats and empty food wrappers. _I’d never do this to you, Baby,_ he told himself.

The next vehicle with dark windows was a faded red Chevy Blazer Silverado. He jimmied the lock open easily and poked his head inside. A large cooler in the back seat caught his attention and he crawled in to pop it open. Vials of blood were nestled into ice and a used needle lay overtop. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it was demon blood. Looking up, he realized he couldn’t see into the trunk. There was a thick board with a swinging hatch opening blocking his view. He withdrew from the front seat and popped the trunk.

A large wire cage, one for a mastiff or a husky, maybe, sat in the center of the space. Strange markings were etched into every bar. An IV line was clipped to the side, the label indicating it was delivering intravenous nutrition and hydration, _and God knows what else_ , Dean thought, to whatever was locked inside. _‘Then they open the kennel and out comes this mangy dude_ ,’ Raylan’s voice echoed in his head and devastating clarity struck him. This was the kennel where they were keeping his brother. He turned on his flashlight for a closer inspection and saw dried blood, a pool of piss, and strands of long chocolate hair caught in the wires. He bit his lip and held back the sob building in his throat. Looking around for more clues, he noticed a mat underneath the plastic tray of the cage. He pulled it out and rode a wave of confusion when he saw it was stitched with a devil’s trap.

_Did they really think Sam was a demon? That they needed a devil’s trap for protection? God, Sam, I need to get you out of here!_

Before he could be overcome by his emotions, he closed the trunk and focused on setting up the GPS tracker and planting it somewhere the hunters wouldn’t see but also wouldn’t obstruct the signal from the device. He decided underneath the rear bumper but above the tailpipe would be an ideal spot. Open to the air, but not easily visible from any angle. He scrunched himself under the car and carefully checked the battery connection, ensuring it was solid. Then he superglued the whole contraption to the truck and prayed it would stay on long enough for him to retrieve Sam.

He heard the creak of the bar door and quickly pushed himself out from under the truck. He slipped around the side, relocked the doors, then waited until the smokers finished their cigarettes. A significant part of him wanted to burst in there, guns blazing, but he knew that wouldn’t help Sam. Sam first. Sam first. It was the only thing that assuaged his fury as he slunk back to his Baby to wait.

* * *

Waiting became a war between vigilance and exhaustion. Despite the eight hours of drug-induced sleep he’d gotten at Bobby’s, that was barely a dent in the deficit he’d racked up over the past few months. He’d burned through his coffee and energy drinks in the first five hours. A few hunters would stroll out now and then but so far, the majority remained inside. He tried keeping himself awake by sheer will but by 1 am he was reduced to taking caffeine pills. His body vibrated with anxious energy, some part of his mind continually urging him to go inside and wreak havoc. But he promised Bobby and Castiel that he would stick to the plan, so he kept himself glued to the seat, eyes pinned on the dingy building.

At 11:18 am, a group of around twenty men and women poured out of the side door towards Tim’s car. Dean watched closely through binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of his brother, but was unrewarded. Instead he saw the satisfied smiles, bruised knuckles, and carefree embraces of pleased hunters. Dean closed his eyes and tried not to think about why they were so happy. 

Eventually all the hunters pulled out of the parking lot and Dean focused on one beat up Chevy. He kept his distance as he trailed his brother’s prison. While he preferred to stay in visual contact, he didn’t want to spook the hunters and lose Sam. He was so damn close. He had the GPS tracker should he lose sight of them. Not that he’d let that happen. He was getting Sam back today, whatever the price.

The hour and fifteen minute drive from Cedar Rapids to Donohue was made in fifty. He was forced to hold back as the surroundings became progressively rural and his cover diminished. Once the blinking dot representing his long lost sibling and his captors stopped moving, he followed along the gravel road slowly and quietly. He pulled off to the side of the dirt driveway, collected a few necessary items, and walked through the woods towards what looked like an abandoned farmhouse. He felt his blood start to heat as he saw the faded vehicle ahead of him.

Dean got closer and adjusted his position so he could see what was happening, binoculars giving him appreciably more visual acuity. Tim and Reggie were silently pulling a blanket off the large kennel in the trunk of the Chevy. The shaking form inside recoiled against the back as if trying to make itself invisible. Dean’s stomach twisted on itself as he saw what could only be his little brother. Filthy clothes hung off the emaciated figure. In the months they’d been apart, Sam had lost an alarming amount of weight. Dean’s body tensed as if preparing for detonation but was instantly defused by a familiar sound. _Sam._ Sam was whimpering, repeatedly saying ‘no’ in a trembling tone Dean recognized. It took him a second but he quickly understood what was happening. _Detox. Oh my God, are they letting him withdraw every time?_

Tim inserted a key into a padlock and opened the crate. Sam feebly tried to move forward but a scrap of his ratty clothes caught on the metal bars, causing him to faceplant into the folded-out tailgate. The men laughed and dragged Sam forward by the hair onto the ground. His brother’s hair was matted and caked in what Dean hoped was mud but knew was blood. A spiked collar hugged his neck and light glinted off what was probably a nametag. Dean bristled with rage, his hand on his gun.

He was about to make the sheer fury of a brother’s vengeance known to these two monsters when he heard voices coming from the garage. He looked back to the hunters in time to see one of them pulling out a vial from the cooler. Demon blood. He had to stop them from poisoning Sam! As he put a foot forward, a large group of people—dammit, Dean _hoped_ they were people—came out of the garage. But it was clear by their wicked smiles that they were, in fact, demons. Dean froze, wracked by indecision. If he stopped the hunters from dosing Sam, best case scenario it’d be three hunters against fifteen demons. Worst case scenario, it’d be two hunters and fifteen demons against Dean and a useless Sam. He hated to admit it, but his best bet was to let Sam take out the demons then launch his rescue mission. His stomach knotted as he watched Tim draw the dark liquid up into a syringe.

He slid the needle into Sam’s arm and depressed the plunger while Reggie held him still. Dean could tell by the way Sam stopped shaking so badly it had to be demon blood. Sam slowly stood and faced the demons, who had halted a few yards away.

“C’mon, freak, do your thing,” Tim hissed.

Sam shook his head and weakly declared “too many,” his shoulders wilting as he realized the futility of his situation. “Can’t. Something’s wrong!”

“You did twelve last week on that dose. What’s a few more?” Reggie spat. _Twelve demons?! Jesus fucking Christ! Were they trying to kill him?!_

“Wait, are you saying you three took out our brothers in Kensington?” one of the demons, a portly balding man in a worn-out Alice Cooper t-shirt, warily asked.

“Actually, just him, our very own boy wonder here.” Tim pushed Sam forward. “We’ll give you the same deal. You give us some information on the horsemen or Lucifer, and the freak will just exorcise you instead of kill you.”

A few of the demons laughed but a teenage girl shushed them. “He looks like shit, but I think that’s Sam Winchester.”

“Yeah, it is, and he’s gonna wipe your miserable faces off the planet if you don’t start talking.”

A businessman with grey hair stepped forward, assuming the leadership role. “What we have here is a misunderstanding. Sure, we can give you all the information you could ever use, but it’s not going to help you. Sam Winchester is a valuable commodity. I’m sure you’re aware he is Lucifer’s true vessel. Sam can try to take out all of us, but when he fails, and he will, whoever’s left is going to kill your sorry asses and take him to Lucifer.” Sam staggered back, terror painted on his face. A strange crackle caught Dean’s attention and he swiveled to see Tim lunge at Sam with a cattle prod and shock him. Sam shook violently and fell to his knees.

The demons took this as a sign of weakness and moved forward together. Gasping for air, Sam looked up and raised his palm at the group. They stopped in their tracks, struggling against Sam’s power. Black smoke began to billow out of some of their mouths, increasing one by one until seven of the demons were choking. Sam raised his other hand to his head and Dean could see blood dripping down Sam’s face out of both nostrils. The other demons resumed their approach.

“C’mon, you bastard, kill these sons of bitches!” Tim yelled and rammed the prod into the base of Sam’s neck and initiated a long shock. Sam screamed but staggered to his feet and redoubled his efforts. He moaned with pain as five more demons began to cough on themselves. Looking back to Sam, Dean watched with horror as blood began to trickle down his cheek from his eye.

“That’s not enough!” Tim shouted and began to push Sam towards the demons. Sam crumpled to the ground but continued to pull the demons from their hosts. The three remaining demons moved forward, intent on capturing Sam. Looking up, Sam saw his fate being sealed and pushed himself that extra mile. One more demon halted and began to shake as Sam’s power forced the demon out. Blood now flowed freely from his nose and both his eyes.

Realizing that Sam couldn’t actually take all of them out, the two hunters started firing their guns in hopes of slowing down the demons. The two demons each grabbed an arm and Sam cried out. Reggie moved forward and sprayed the closer demon with holy water. She released her hold as she covered her face. The last demon, the businessman, laughed as he hoisted Sam up. “Have fun stopping the Apocalypse, losers!” He held Sam tight and teleported away.

And just like that, Sam was gone.

* * *

Dean stowed his binoculars and armed each clenched fist with a gun. He surged forward, unsure whether to blast the remaining demon or the hunters first.

Unaware of his presence, Tim began reciting an exorcism while Reggie continued to douse her with holy water. The demon screamed and writhed before smoking out. Dean could tell by the way her body dropped that the host was dead.

Dean allowed the two hunters to put away their weapons before firing a shot into the air, instantly gaining the men’s attention. As he approached, a steeled expression of hate forged onto his face, he fired a shot into one thigh of each man before training his aim on their heads.

The ensuing cries of pain were immediately silenced by Dean’s snarling proclamation “I’m Dean Winchester. Up until two minutes ago, you had my brother. Give me one reason not to blow your fucking brains out right now!” Dean thundered.

“S-Sam! I-we can help you find him,” Reggie squeaked.

Dean’s fingers itched on the triggers but he pulled back. “How?”

“We got coordinates.”

“Is the info reliable? Cuz if it’s coming from demons, I don’t trust it. Demons lie.”

“Not when the frea— Sam is controlling them,” Tim answered, entering the conversation. Dean didn’t miss his correction. His finger fidgeted over the smooth metal again.

“Controlling them?”

“Well, uh, I guess when he uses his powers, he tortures ‘em so much they’ll pretty much do whatever he says.”

Dean’s jaw twitched but he forced his emotions down. “I need something better than rumors from Hell spawn.”

“He has a tracking device. We can find him anywhere, provided he’s not too deep underground,” Reggie explained, seeming far more frightened and compliant than Tim, who merely looked annoyed at the inconvenience of being shot.

“Look, let’s make a deal. We got some things you want and we get it that you aren’t messing around.” Tim gestured to the bleeding bullet hole in his leg. “We weren’t really planning on dying today,” he said casually.

“Besides Sam’s location, what could you possibly have that I would want?!”

“We-we kept records,” Reggie blurted. “Notes, pictures, videos. Of what’s happened to him, of everything he can do.”

_Everything he can do?_ Dean thought, dread filling him. _How much worse could this get?_

“We’ll trade you the tracker and the records for our freedom,” Tim offered.

“I could just kill you both now and take it.”

“Records aren’t here,” Tim replied evenly. “Plus, both things are password protected and encrypted, so good luck getting to Sammy before Lucifer makes him his bitch!” Tim failed to suppress his smirk.

Fire surged in Dean and he had to force his body to stay still. He held Tim’s gaze for a moment, trying to determine if he was lying. But the seasoned hunter had an excellent poker face.

He heard Castiel’s voice telling him to focus on Sam. Finding Sam was his priority. Revenge could come later.

Dean grit his teeth and demurred, lowering his guns.

“Fine. But if you’re lying to me, it will be the end of everything you ever cared about.”

Tim put his hands up in a show of peace. “Reggie, go get the tracker.” He took a hobbled step towards Dean. “The way I see it, Sam is a goddam monster. But you haven’t done anything wrong, Dean. I mean, I don’t get why you’re going after that… thing… but at this point, it’s not my business. My quarrel ain’t with you.”

Dean moved closer but he spoke in a low growl. “The second you laid a hand on my brother, you made it my problem. Even if you hold up your end of the deal, don’t think _for one goddam second_ that this is the last you’ll see of me.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Tim replied, though he almost seemed playful and it made Dean seethe.

Luckily for Tim, Reggie emerged from behind the truck with a case. “Password is ‘DemonSlayer666’, capital D and S, no spaces.”

“Real cute,” Dean spat, tucking one gun into his belt and grabbing the case with his left hand. “What about the records?” He needed to know what Sam had suffered so he could help his little brother recover.

“We’ll send ‘em express to Bobby Singer,” Tim said with a slight smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “If you do anything—”

“Stop being such a drama queen. We aren’t fixin’ to start a war against other hunters. We’re just fighting the one your _brother_ started.”

Dean bristled but maintained his composure, the physical strain making his muscles ache. “You don’t know the half of it. Get the fuck outta here before I change my mind about letting you live. If I don’t see a package inside of three days, I _will_ change my mind.”

“Copy that, Winchester.” Tim gave him a mock salute and got in the truck.

As the engine turned over, Dean looked Tim dead in the eye, warning “And remember that this isn’t over!”

Tim nodded and gave him a thumbs up. “I’ll keep it in mind. And Dean? If you manage to get him back, please let him know that we really appreciate him being such a good sport!”

Dean’s rage could no longer be contained and he lifted his gun as the truck peeled out. Only the tiniest amount of residual restraint prevented him from blasting these psychos to Hell. Instead, he shot out the back window and punched holes in the tailgate.

As soon as they were out of sight, he squatted to the ground and opened the case. A rugged looking computer requested a password and he entered it. After a few anxiety-inducing moments of blackness, the screen lit up. A little red pin embedded itself in the digital map. When Dean read the location, he felt like he’d been hit by a car. His breath rushed out of him and his vision blurred. Memories of his visit to 2014 sprang up, bombarding his exhausted mind with agonizing snippets.

_“Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn’t make it.”_

_“I want you to see our brother. Sam didn’t die in Detroit. He said ‘yes’. That’s right, the big ‘yes’, to the Devil. Lucifer’s wearing him to the prom.”_

_A white-suited Sam— no —Lucifer_ possessing _Sam. “I know you won’t say ‘yes’ to Michael, either. And I know you won’t kill Sam. Whatever you do, you will always end up_ here _. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here. I win. So I win.”_

_The small, smug smile of Lucifer lilting on that familiar face._

Dean retched and fell backwards, fear inundating every crevice of his psyche. “Sammy, no!” Dean wailed, tears pricking his eyes. _Pull it together, man!_ he berated himself. There was still a chance it wasn’t too late. He just needed to get there as quickly as possible. But he was hours away from Detroit. How could he—Cas!

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and nearly dropped it trying to dial he was shaking so much.

“Hello, Dean.” Dean had never been so grateful to hear that voice in his entire life.

“Cas! Oh, thank God. Cas, I found him. I know where Sam is. But we don’t have a lot of time. Some demons are on their way to give him to Lucifer. Think you could give me a lift?”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, about twelve miles northwest of Davenport, outside of Donohue in an abandoned farmhouse.”

“I will be there momen—” The phone cut off abruptly, only to have the angel appear in front of him “—tarily.” Castiel nodded a greeting. “Where is he?”

Dean looked at the screen. “He’s at… 42°21'11.2"N 83°03'55.2"W. Cas, it’s Detroit. Where Lucifer said he’d get Sam to say ‘yes’.” Heartbreak was threatening to sap Dean’s strength.

“We will stop him.” Cas reached out to grab Dean’s arm but Dean pulled away.

“Hold on, lemme pack some stuff up! Don’t know what we’re going into.” Dean closed the case and returned to the Impala, carefully stowing the case and then packing a bag. As he closed the trunk, he slid his hand affectionally over Baby. “You’ll be able to bring us back here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, then. Let’s do it.”

* * *

A beautiful red brick building stretched up before them, its façade glowing in the early evening light. Its arched entryway and windows separated it from most modern construction. Dean took a second to catch his breath and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that this building was next to and belonged to a church! “Oh come on! Has Lucifer _no_ decency?”

Castiel followed his line of sight to the ownership placard on the exterior wall but made no comment. “Lucifer is not here.”

Dean whirled and looked at Cas. “What?!”

“Lower your voice!” Castiel ordered. “Lucifer is not here, but there are demons.”

That actually sent a surge of relief through Dean. Demons, they could deal with. Lucifer, not so much. “What are we waiting for then? Can’t we just go in and nab Sam?”

Cas appraised the building and frowned. “It is heavily warded. No angel can enter.”

Dean scrunched his brow in confusion. “But isn’t Lucifer an angel?”

“Yes. He cannot enter either.”

“Fuck!” Dean breathed. _That means something weird is going on. Like any rescue mission for Sam was gonna be easy…_

“I’m sorry, Dean, but you must go in alone if you wish to retrieve your brother.”

Dean closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Alright. But you better not move from that spot.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You better pinky promise,” Dean grumbled under his breath as he turned to walk up the steps. He pulled out the demon blade and a flask of holy water before adjusting the duffle bag on his shoulder. Turning the doorknob, he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or concerned that the door was unlocked. He looked back to Cas, who nodded in encouragement.

The smell of stale food and spilled beer hit him like a baseball bat. Empty boxes, cartons, and bottles were strewn about the once-nice room. The furniture bore witness to a number of messy activities. Dean grimaced and carefully stepped through the living room, flinching when he heard a loud clunking noise from upstairs, like something heavy had been dropped. _Not Sam’s body_ , he prayed. He poked his head into the dining room but it was similarly empty of bodies, full of trash. He withdrew his 1911 and tucked it into his belt then deposited the bag at the bottom of the stairs. Chances were he would need full mobility.

He ascended the staircase one step at a time, trying to minimize the squeak of the wood. About halfway, he heard the pleading voice of a woman, though her words were unintelligible through her sobs. He moved faster, hoping to spare the victim too much more trauma. He followed the woman’s pitiful whimpers to an open door at the end of a short hallway. He pressed himself up against the wall and slid along it, doing his best to maintain the element of surprise. When he got to the doorway, he paused a few moments to gather his wits, then stuck his head around the corner.

He did not expect the sight spread out before him and for a few moments, his brain couldn’t even comprehend it.

Random rays of daylight evaded the control of the heavy curtains and speared through the dark space, illuminating several bodies on the floor in various states of disarray. An older black man merely looked like he was sleeping, but the others displayed obvious signs of violence. A suavely dressed middle-aged white man lay disemboweled in one corner. A blonde teenager sat crumpled against the bedframe, her ribcage splayed open and blood pooling in her lap. Bloody handprints adorned the comforter, leading Dean’s gaze to a handsome Asian man lying on the bed, his throat slit and a dark red stain blooming from his groin.

A weak, strangled “help me!” drew his attention to what looked to be a recessed powder room. It was too dark to see anything clearly. Dean stowed the holy water and the knife, withdrew his gun and aimed towards the room. Crossing his left arm under his right, he switched on all the lights and was immediately confused by the scene. There was a body splayed in front of the entryway. Dean recognized him as the businessman demon that had grabbed Sam in Donohue. A bright red stain adorned his neck and suit coat. Looking up, Dean saw Sam, or who he guessed had to be Sam judging by the state of his filthy, torn clothes and long, messy hair, kneeling in front of the woman, his head seemingly resting on her knee. She called out to him again, pleading for release. The dark-haired woman was handcuffed to the armrests of a chair and she was struggling to escape. He looked to her face and in the bright light, he saw the beetle black of her eyes. Sympathy for her drained away and went entirely to his brother.

“Sammy!” Dean cried out, lowering his gun as he raced across the room. He was halfway when Sam stood up and turned. One glance at his brother’s gaunt face stopped him dead in his tracks.

Bright red blood was smeared around Sam’s mouth, dribbling down his neck and onto his shirt. Sharp cheekbones edged alarming angles. But when he got to Sam’s gaze, expecting to see the luminous hazel of his eyes, Dean felt his world flip upside down as cold, malevolent black stared back at him.

“S-Sam?” Dean queried, his voice almost a whisper. Fear was coiling up his throat, threatening to silence him.

Sam cocked his head to the side slightly, the small smile crossing his face somehow distorting his features into a grotesque, almost feral expression. “Hey, Dean. Long time, no see,” he drawled, almost tauntingly. “If you don’t mind, I was kind of in the middle of something. Need to finish powering up.” He gestured behind him to the whimpering demon.

Dean shook his head. “No, I can’t let you poison yourself anymore.” Dean took a step forward then felt his legs unable to move. He looked down then back at Sam, who was grinning, red staining his teeth. _What the fuck?!_ “Is this you? Are you doing this?”

Sam’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath. “Uh-huh.” His tongue playfully licked at some blood decorating his lips.

Dean pushed past the nausea rising in his throat. “H-How?”

“Turns out I could do a helluva lot more once I gave in.”

“Gave in?” Dean repeated, terror now making him go numb.

“Yeah, once I accepted the power as a part of me, stopped fighting it. Besides saying ‘no’ to Lucifer, this is all I am. Azazel’s freak.”

“No, Sam, that’s not true. Come with me and we’ll figure this out.” 

He scoffed loudly. “Come with you? Yeah, not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Hmm well let’s see… One…” He suddenly whirled on the demon still whimpering behind him and twisted his hand, her neck snapping like a twig. A part of Dean told him to run before the same thing happened to him, but he just couldn’t make himself do it. He’d finally found Sam after all these months. He wasn’t leaving him now, demon or otherwise. Sam turned back around and looked at Dean solemnly.

“One, you’re gonna try to cut me off. And no matter how you slice it, withdrawal is Hell.” Dean couldn’t argue with that. “Two, I _like_ this, Dean. I want it. With everything that I can do now, and without those assholes drugging and sedating me six ways from Sunday, I can finally protect myself.” _Drugging and sedating him? What exactly had been going on?!_ “Three, to get me to go with you, you’re gonna have to kill me.”

“What?!” Dean exclaimed, his face blanching. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Sam walked over to Dean, his expression hardening in anger. Dean’s mind screamed to retreat but he couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to. Besides, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to get Sam back. They’d fix this. They always did.

Sam leaned into Dean’s space, their faces a few inches from touching, his black eyes making Dean’s soul squirm. “Because, if you try to get your little brother back…” He sighed, clearly searching for the right words. “Fuck, the way he shrieks in misery whenever he surfaces… It’d be enough to drive you insane, too. You’re gonna have to get used to either killing him yourself or cleaning up his brains when he eats his gun. It’s the only rest he gets, besides me, of course.” He straightened his posture then took a few steps back. “So, two options here: you show me you can man up and kill me, or I walk outta here.” He held his arms out, making himself a large target.

Tears were welling up in Dean’s eyes. “I-I can’t kill you… I can’t kill Sam.” 

Sam shrugged and dropped his arms to his side. “That settles that, then.”

“Sammy, please,” Dean begged, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Sam shook his head. “See ya, Dean. Best of luck with the Apocalypse.” He started to walk forward.

_God, please forgive me_ , Dean prayed. Before Sam could move past him, Dean raised his gun and fired two bullets into Sam’s heart. The hold on Dean’s legs released as Sam dropped. Dean wasn’t fast enough to catch him and his body loudly thumped against the floor. He realized now that the sound he had heard downstairs was likely the body of the businessman hitting the floor after Sam had drained him. His legs became weak and he collapsed, allowing his head to fall such that he could see Sam. He looked over at him, morbidly entranced by the blood slowly pooling by his head. Dean could have sworn there was a faint smile on his face. He did at least look peaceful. Even though his eyes were closed, Dean couldn’t get the inky blackness out of his mind, couldn’t forget Sam had been drinking that demon when he came in. Fire churned up his throat and he turned away to puke. Of all the ways he’d imagined his search for Sam ending, this hadn’t been one of them.

But here he was, about to carry out his dead brother’s body, the brother who had died at his own hand. It didn’t make a difference that he would be resurrected within a day; Dean had still killed Sam. He knew what his nightmares would be for the next _ever_.

As his gaze lazily followed the creeping spread of Sam’s blood, a flash of metal at the edge of the pool caught his eye. He reached out and picked up the object, not realizing what it was until it was too late. The little silver spikes and blood soaked black leather could only be one thing: the collar he had seen earlier around Sam’s neck. He twisted his hand to read the dangling nametag, bold black letters etched into shiny silver reading “FREAK”. Dean pressed his eyes closed as he bit his fist, suppressing the scream welling up from the depths of his soul. He turned to his brother and decided they needed to be away from this place as fast as possible.

He hoisted Sam’s body over his shoulder, stood up, and carried him out fireman style. The fact that Sam was so easy to move grieved Dean; it meant Sam had lost an alarming amount of weight. His fit, toned, health-nut brother was now a fragile famine victim. It would take months to put enough meat back on his bones to look normal.

He made it down the stairs and grabbed the duffel bag. He pushed through the front door, relieved to see Castiel standing exactly where he had left him.

Castiel smiled at first, then frowned as he took in the state of Sam’s body. Dean walked over to Cas, who wordlessly flew them back to the Impala. Dean hastily deposited his brother in the back seat, draping a blanket over his body.

Castiel was peering in the window, so close to Dean that he backed up directly into the angel.

“What happened, Dean?”

Dean ran his hand over his face, oblivious to the tracks he was drawing with Sam’s still-warm blood. “I—he—Cas…” Dean leaned against the Impala and hung his head. “He had black eyes…”

“Are you sure you saw correctly?” Dean didn’t miss the alarm in Castiel’s usually stoic voice.

Dean lifted his head to stare at the angel. “Yes, Cas, I’m sure. He… he was drinking demon blood and he can do things with his powers that he couldn’t before. He stopped me from moving – like actual demons do.” He dropped his gaze to the ground. “What if we’re too late? What if Sam, the real Sam, is gone?”

Castiel mulled over this for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Sam is strong. I believe he is still in there somewhere. If you would like, I could seek out his soul.”

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This all seemed too surreal. “Would it hurt him?”

“Not if he is dead, as you say. And how exactly did that happen?”

Dean swallowed down the regret growing in his throat like a tumor. “He, well, demon-Sam said that he wouldn’t go with me because he didn’t want to stop. That I’d have to kill him to prove I have the guts to deal with Sam if he ever resurfaces because he’s so messed up from everything that’s happened. I don’t know if he was bluffing but he started to leave, and Cas, I just couldn’t let him go, not when I was standing three feet away from him after so long, so I, I did it, I shot him…” Dean’s voice had dropped to a painful whisper and he looked about ready to collapse.

The angel leaned forward and firmly gripped Dean’s shoulder. “You did what you had to do, Dean. My guess is that the real Sam, if he is even aware, will not fault for you for it one bit. Do not let this guilt consume you. You have more important things to worry about.” He tilted his head towards the backseat. “Now, do you want me to check on him?”

Dean took a few deep breaths to collect himself then stood up straighter. “Sure. Can’t hurt to have more intel.” Dean slid out of the way.

Castiel nodded and opened the door. He gently lifted the blanket off Sam’s body and placed it to the side. He inhaled fully and went to place his hand on Sam’s chest.

Bright light erupted from the point of contact and Castiel jolted back, hitting his head on the roof of the Impala. Consternation splashed across his face and he leaned forward again to repeat the motion, only to receive a more violent reaction. Pulling his hand back, it was bright red and blistered.

“What the hell, Cas?!”

Castiel withdrew and further inspected his hand. “I am not sure, but it appears that Sam is very powerfully warded against the touch of an angel. This was likely done in an effort to repel Lucifer.”

“So you can’t even heal him?”

Castiel had the grace to look apologetic. “I’m afraid not, Dean. Not until the warding is reversed.”

“How?”

He shook his head minutely. “You must learn what was done to enact the wards. It could be a spell, a talisman, or a physical mark such as your anti-possession tattoo.”

“The fucking hunters that took Sam said they kept notes and they’d be sending them to me in a few days. But I don’t know if they’ll include that!”

“Why are you so concerned about healing him? Lucifer won’t let him die so you need not fear losing him from mortal wounds.”

“Gee, thanks, Cas, that’s really reassuring. Maybe Lucifer doesn’t give a shit about the burn marks on his neck and all the other crap I’m sure is wrong with him. Maybe I just want Sam to be comfortable because I care about him!”

Castiel’s brows knit together as he regarded Dean’s increasing anxiety. “We both know what is next. There will be no comforting Sam while his body is purified of the demon blood.”

Dean gripped his hair in frustration. “You think I don’t know that?! Detox is going to be a fucking bitch this time around. But, hey, at least I know Lucifer won’t let him die so he can suffer endlessly!” he threw back at Castiel angrily.

“Dean, I am on your side. It brings me no pleasure to see Sam this way. He does not deserve this. It is probably best that you return to Bobby’s before Sam is resurrected. I am not sure what to expect. Call on me if you feel I can be of assistance.”

Dean sighed again and nodded. “Thanks. I know, you’re right… It’s just…”

“We will get him back. You survived Hell. He will survive this.”

“I hope so. See you later, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Before his emotions could penetrate his shock and begin to tear him apart, he called Bobby.

“Dean! Are you alright? Did you get Sam?”

Dean tried to speak but no sound would come out.

“Dean? You there?”

“Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely.

“What happened?”

“I got him, but it’s bad. He—he had black eyes, Bobby.”

“Come again?!”

“He was drinking demon blood when I got there, and his eyes were black. And he… he could do things, Bobby, things that demons can do. He stopped me from moving. I—I don’t know if it’s even him anymore.”

“Jesus. This is new. How is he now?”

“De-dea—” He couldn’t make himself say ‘dead’. Not after Cold Oak. “I had to kill him. It was the only way he’d let me take him. Said I either had to kill him to prove I could do it when he goes crazy or I let him walk.” Sobs started to strangle his voice. “I didn’t want to, Bobby, I didn’t—I just couldn’t let him leave, not after I’d finally found him. I shot him. I had to shoot my little brother.”

“Dean, it’s okay, you did what you had to do. You got him. Now you bring him home and we’ll figure out what to do next, okay? You hear me, son? You bring our boy back here and we’ll sort this out.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry yourself with that now. Your only job is get your ass back here. You can do it. Don’t give up now.”

Dean nodded vigorously, ignoring the tears flicking off his chin. He breathed in deeply and collected himself. “You’re right. I got this. Gonna bring him home, finally. See you soon, Bobby.”

“That’s my boy. Drive carefully, Dean. Don’t need some state trooper pulling you over with Sam in the back.”

“Noted.”

He ended the call, threw the phone into the empty passenger seat his brother should be inhabiting, and started the car before he could lose himself to grief once again.

* * *

Silence encased Dean like a mortuary shroud. Music seemed too invasive, too lively considering the empty shell that rested behind him. Pressure pounded behind his temples, his mind reeling with the events of the past few hours. The two hours of driving had done little to calm his nerves. The sun had set and the world was awash with rural-highway darkness. In a way, he wished this was all some terrible nightmare, or another one of Zachariah’s maybe-futures, and that he would wake up and be able to call Sam and avert this disaster. Michael, Lucifer, and the Apocalypse, he could deal with, as long as he had Sam. But if Sam was as broken as the demonic creature wearing his skin had claimed, then what was the point? _What had been the point of any of it?_ Dean thought mournfully. The demon deal had condemned his brother to become this, perhaps independent of either of their actions.

“Shoulda let the dead stay dead, big brother,” a sarcastic voice rang out and Dean slammed the brakes out of surprise.

“Sam?!” Dean exclaimed as he turned to look into the backseat. A punch hit him square in the nose and he yelped in pain, white splotches eroding his vision. He heard the door creak open then slam shut. He vigorously rubbed his face to dissipate the sharp pain and restore his sight. Sam was walking down the road in front of him, his tall frame and ragged clothes illuminated by the headlights. “Sam! Wait!” Dean put the car into park and went to open the door but it wouldn’t budge. Dean tried rolling down the window but it would only descend a few inches. “Sam! Please! Let’s talk about this!” he shouted out the small opening.

His wayward brother stopped walking and stood there a few moments before spinning to face Dean. His eyes gleamed black and the smile on his face was not one of affection. He set his feet as he crossed his arms, his pose authoritative and intimidating despite his sickly appearance. “You know, I underestimated you, Dean. I honestly didn’t think you’d have the balls to actually kill me.” The corners of his lips turned down in a weird smirk. “I’m impressed. But now that I know you’ll call my bluff, I’m gonna have to do what I must to protect myself.”

“I can help with that! We’ll fix it! You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

An unsettling laugh rumbled out of Sam. “Fix me? You should know from your own stint in Hell that there is no _fixing_ something like this. You, and Sam for that matter, would be much better off just letting me handle things. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“I can’t, I can’t just leave Sam!”

“Why not? With me, Sam stays buried and safe, Lucifer has little chance of breaking through, and I am a demon-killing machine. What’s not to like?” He smiled in a facetious way.

Dean shook his head. “Come on, some part of you has to know this isn’t the best way!”

Sam shrugged and uncrossed his arms. “Maybe there is, but it’s not the part in control.”

Sam raised his right arm and Dean suddenly felt rigid pressure closing in around his neck. Instinctively, his hands sprung up to free himself but there was nothing physical there. Just his supernaturally-powered demonic brother trying to kill him. Panic surged through Dean as he recognized that this could not only be the end of his own life, but also the last chance to save Sam from the fate currently befalling him. Dean knew he had to act boldly, and fast. Sam was beyond reason and it wasn’t like Dean was able to talk anyway. His best option was to kill him, again, as much as that grieved his heart. But his gun was too far away and no other weapons were immediately available. Well, there _was_ one thing, though he’d never considered it a weapon, per say.

Nauseating dread thundered through him as inspiration struck and he hated everything that had led him to this moment. But it was now or never. Black spots were dancing in his vision as his brain was starved of oxygen. He’d always told himself he would save Sam or die trying. Now was his chance to make good on that promise.

He threw the Impala into drive and whispered “sorry, Baby,” as he pressed his foot down on the gas pedal. Air suddenly rushed back into Dean’s lungs as he watched a shocked Sam shift his telekinetic focus from Dean to the car. His Baby rattled under him for a moment, spinning her tires, but he coaxed her just that little bit more and they pushed through Sam’s resistance. With the distance between them closing more quickly than either could react, Dean would have thought the flabbergasted expression on Sam’s face was hilarious had the circumstances not been so damn tragic. Bright lights flared up Sam’s body, his eyes gaping like two black holes. Unwilling to have an even more disturbing visual in his head for the rest of his life, Dean closed his eyes and braced for impact.

Dean had never run over a person before, but it was simultaneously as terrifying as he expected and as undramatic as he suspected. The solid thud of Baby’s bumper hitting a standing body was quickly followed by another, likely Sam’s head hitting the hood of the car as his body bent around the force. The car briefly struggled to drive over the impeding obstacle then was free. With the Impala regaining speed, Dean changed gears and cranked the wheel hard, swinging the car around to face the carnage. He released the wheel then put the car into park before taking a deep breath. Time ebbed around him slowly, stimuli slowly dribbling in. A morbid thought occurred to him and he threw himself out of the car. He should check and make sure Sam was really dead, not suffering out on the asphalt. He braced himself and scanned the road.

About thirty feet in front of him, Sam’s mangled corpse lay strewn over the blacktop. Dean approached slowly, knowing there was no way Sam could be alive but needing to confirm it despite everything in him urging him to turn around and run away. Sam’s back was clearly broken, as were all his major bones. His jaw was obliterated from where a tire had crushed it into the road. Blood leaked out several ugly wounds, the darkening red glistening in Baby’s headlights. Nausea made itself very clearly known and he fell to his hands and knees as he threw up. There wasn’t much left except bile but his guts heaved as if trying to expel every horrible sight and memory currently vying for his attention.

As he looked again at Sam’s battered body, he had the odd realization that Sam had already experienced such a scene with Dean. Based on the soul-shocking agony he endured when he was ripped apart by Lilith’s hellhound, he imagined his body was likely in no better shape than Sam’s. Yet Sam had collected Dean and laid him to rest, determined to rescue his brother from Hell. If Sam could do it, Dean could do it.

He went back to the Impala and retrieved the blanket from the backseat. He carefully spread it out on the road and then shifted Sam onto it. He folded it around his disfigured brother, tears moistening his eyes as he continued to assess the damage. He hated himself for doing this and begged whatever good was left in the world that Sam, his Sam, wouldn’t remember it. He set the body in the backseat, this time taking the precaution of handcuffing his wrists and his ankles.

Hopeful that he could make it the four hours to Bobby’s without incident, Dean settled into the driver’s seat. He had momentarily fooled himself that he was okay, that he had done what was necessary, and that everything would be okay. Then he looked toward the road and saw the dent in the hood, decorated with Sam’s blood. His flimsy façade crumbled in an instant, trapping him in its violent landslide. Dean collapsed into the steering wheel and wept openly, his soul buckling under the immense weight of so much grief. He couldn’t have come this far only to lose Sam anyway.

Yet the niggling doubt that ‘ _you’re too late_ ’ took a step forward and dominated his thoughts. What if this was it? What if Sammy, his bleeding heart little brother, the five year old snuggled against his arm as he read him a bedtime story, the eight year old who once cried when someone stepped on a caterpillar, the fourteen year old laughing as they shot cans off a fence post, the stubborn college-bound eighteen year old that Dean was just so damn proud of and he could never admit it to Sam, the young man he had fought side by side with for years, was dead? Perhaps all that remained was evil.


	22. Taunted

This time, Bobby heard the grumble of the Impala in his driveway long before the elder Winchester entered his home. He waited as he heard the engine shut off, a mix of eagerness and dread filling his gut. He was eager to see his youngest but he dreaded the state he’d be in. Minutes went by and no one came in. Confused, Bobby rolled to the front door and opened it, cursing the awkward maneuvers necessary. He went out onto the porch and saw the Impala. He didn’t miss the large dent marring the hood.

Inside sat Dean, hunched against the steering wheel, his shoulders jerking in the telltale movements of sobs. Bobby felt his throat constrict and he pounded his legs, resentful of his disability, frustrated that it prevented him from comforting his surrogate son. All he could do was wait until Dean collected himself and came inside. Bobby returned to the kitchen, willing to give Dean some privacy. He pulled out two tumblers and filled them with whiskey, having no doubt they would be filled and emptied many more times today.

Almost twenty minutes later, Dean carried his blanket-wrapped brother up the stairs and into the house.

“Dean!” Bobby called out urgently and followed him to the couch. Dean deposited his burden and greedily snatched the glass Bobby held out. “How is he?”

Dean downed the entire glass before looking back to Bobby. His red-rimmed eyes did not go unnoticed. “Bad. It’s really bad.”

“What do you mean? I thought Lucifer would resurrect him?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, he did. But it’s not instantaneous. It takes time for his wounds to heal.” He carefully peeled back the blanket to reveal Sam’s bloody and battered corpse. His face was still crushed, though his jaw seemed to have righted itself.

Bobby averted his gaze as fast as he could, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “Jesus, Dean! Warn a guy next time! I thought you said you shot him! What’d you use, heavy artillery?!”

Dean looked down at his shoes. “I had to run him over. I had to hit him with my Baby, Bobby!” He put a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back another round of tears.

“What happened?” Bobby tried to glance back at Sam but couldn’t bear it. “Please Dean, cover ‘im up.”

Dean flipped the blanket back over Sam. “He woke up while I was driving. He punched me in the nose when I turned ‘round to check on him. Still had black eyes. He got out, wanted to leave. I tried to talk him back into the car but he used his new psychic mojo or whatever to strangle me.”

“Hold up. His powers didn’t used to work on people.”

“I know, but they fucking do now! Not only that, he nearly stopped the Impala from driving. It was literally kill or be killed, Bobby, and I knew he’d come back, so I did it, I killed my brother, _again_.”

Bobby gulped against the painful tension in his throat then let his head fall into his hand. “Dammit Dean, I can’t even imagine what that was like.”

“Was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Dean choked out.

A minute’s silence encased them, each man coming to grips with the situation. “Bobby,” Dean rasped, “there’s something—I think we should, uh, do something before he wakes up.”

The older hunter looked up at Dean. “What’s that?”

“We need to pump his stomach.”

“Come again?”

“He— When I found him, he’d drank at least four or five demons. Maybe that’s why he was so damn strong. We need to detox him. It’ll probably go quicker if he has less blood in his system.”

Bobby’s stomach balked at the idea but he knew Dean was right. “Well, as long as he’s… incapacitated, it should be fairly easy to siphon it out. I have an oil pump we could use.”

“Great, where is it? I’ll go get it and clean it up.”

“Second shelf on the left in the workshop.”

Dean was up in a flash and gone before Bobby could say anything else. He couldn’t blame the kid. He’d been honest when he said he couldn’t imagine what this was like for Dean. Yeah, he’d had to kill his wife, but as horrible as that had been, it’d only been once. Flashes of Karen’s possessed face flickered through his mind, mixing with memories of Sam’s black eyes when he was possessed by Meg. He shook his head vigorously to dispel the images and went to the kitchen for a bucket.

Dean returned and scrubbed the tubing and hand pump to within an inch of its life, the task obviously distracting him from his woes. He rinsed everything thoroughly, even though he consciously knew a little dish soap wouldn’t hurt Sam, hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice it once he woke up, but it didn’t stop Dean from doing his best to take care of his little brother.

He strode into the living room and looked at Bobby apprehensively. “Ready to do this?”

Bobby held up the bucket and a kitchen towel. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Dean shifted the blanketed bundle so that Sam’s back and head were flat on the cushions and his legs were dangling over the arm of the couch. He braced himself as he unwrapped the blanket to reveal the garish scene of injuries slowly being knit back together. Bobby whimpered in sympathy as he came closer. “God…” he murmured.

“You shoulda seen it when it first happened. He’s had like three hours to recover at this point.”

“It’s still awful,” Bobby said quietly and Dean nodded in agreement.

“What’s the best way to do this?” Dean asked, his hands anxiously playing with the stiff tubing.

“Honestly, just stick it in and try to follow his esophagus down. You’ll probably feel some pushback from the esophageal sphincter but since he’s—” Bobby didn’t want to say the word, even if it was a temporary condition for Sam, “you know, there shouldn’t be too much resistance.”

Dean swallowed hard then knelt on the floor by Sam’s head. He opened Sam’s mouth and carefully threaded the tubing in, using a flashlight to guide him down Sam’s throat. About a foot and a half in, he felt the tube hit something. He rearranged his position so he was now over the arm of the couch. He titled Sam’s head back as far as it would go, did his best to ignore the coolness of Sam’s skin, and kept pushing straight towards Sam’s stomach. He felt the pressure give and fed in a few more inches until he was sure he was in the right spot.

He motioned for Bobby to set the bucket down next to the couch. Dean started pumping the siphon and within a few seconds, an almost black liquid gurgled into the hose. It sloshed down into the white bucket and revealed itself to be a dark red. Dean crushed the pump a few more times to eliminate any air and let the siphon run. The sickening aroma of blood and stomach acid permeated the room as the bucket steadily filled. Both Dean and Bobby watched with horror as at least two gallons flowed out of Sam’s stomach.

A storm of emotions raged in Dean. He was angry that this had happened to his brother, but also angry that Sam had allowed this to happen. If he hadn’t been so arrogant in the first place, thinking drinking demon blood was a good idea, this never would have occurred. If he hadn’t been so weak as to let himself become addicted, this would not have happened. If he’d gotten his act together and stuffed down his emotions after he released Lucifer, the two of them never would have separated and Sam wouldn’t have been captured. _Fucking stupid Sam, always getting into the worst shit._

But Dean also knew a large part of this wasn’t actually Sam’s fault. They’d all been played for fools, everything in their life leading up to the Apocalypse. He sincerely doubted they would have been able to change any of the outcomes. Maybe the routes, but not the destination.

The sputtering of the siphon drew him back to reality and he looked down. Air had entered the tube, allowing some of the blood to slide back into Sam’s stomach. He quickly withdrew the tubing and let it all fall into the bucket. He looked up at Bobby, who tilted his head toward the yard, indicating Dean should dump it outside. Wordlessly, Dean grabbed the handle and walked out.

Dean returned after rinsing the bucket with the hose. Bobby was trying to wash Sam’s face but the accumulated grime wasn’t easy to remove. Dean looked at Sam and sighed. “I should bring him down to the panic room before he wakes up. He’s gonna need to detox, same as before.”

Bobby nodded. “Make sure to lock him up. Who knows what we’ll be dealing with.” Once he saw Dean bob his head in agreement, Bobby rolled away to another room, acutely aware he could offer Dean no assistance, either physically or emotionally. 

* * *

Dean rubbed his eyes, whether out of exhaustion or disbelief, he wasn’t sure. The healing was almost too slow to watch in real time, but if he looked away for a few minutes and then checked, he could see the differences in Sam’s body. He was grateful Sam’s regeneration progressed so quickly. Continually watching the repair of Sam’s body diluted the more grotesque images plaguing his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

By now, the broken bones had been corrected and the major lacerations had closed. All that remained were the smaller cuts and for Sam to start breathing again. Dean had attempted to clean the blood off but it felt too much like preparing a body for a funeral. He just couldn’t do it. Sam wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

“Dean?” Bobby bellowed down the stairs.

Dean set his glass of bourbon aside and pushed himself out of the chair. He cracked open the heavy iron door. “What?”

“You’ve been down there for almost five hours! Why don’t you take a break? Get some grub?”

He shook his head even though Bobby couldn’t see him. “No, I think he’ll come back soon. Most of the injuries are gone. I wanna be here when he wakes up.”

“Dean…” the older hunter implored.

“Bobby, leave it,” Dean urged, trying to temper the heat in his voice. He really didn’t want to get into it with Bobby right now.

“Fine, suit yourself...” Bobby grumbled and closed the basement door.

Dean sighed. He wasn’t trying to piss off Bobby. He just wanted to do what was best for his brother. He pulled the door shut and resumed his post.

* * *

About an hour later, Sam gasped for breath and tried to sit up. The way his hands were cuffed limited his movement, so instead he opened his eyes and lifted his head. He slowly scanned the room, a small smile gracing his lips. Glistening black met Dean’s gaze and it made the older Winchester want to shudder with revulsion. Sam blinked and cocked his head to the side.

“Is this any way to treat your battered little brother?”

“You’re not Sam,” Dean said firmly before looking away.

“Yes, I am, you just don’t want to accept it. Am I all of Sam?” He shrugged. “Probably not. But I’m the only functional part. I’m keeping the rest of him, of us, safe. Don’t you think this is a better state of affairs? I have some freedom, control. I occasionally even have fun! That’s _way more_ than you can say for _him_.”

Dean forced himself to look at the black eyes scarring the most familiar face in his life. “How did you even… happen?”

Demon-Sam scoffed. “Bastards injected me with demon blood when I was too unresponsive to swallow it. Mixing the blood directly must somehow make it more potent. I don’t know. Do I look like an expert?”

“Well, you do seem to know how to use it!”

“Practice makes perfect, and they forced me through _a lot_ of practice.”

Dean _did not_ like the sound of that! He schooled his expression to one of strict interrogation. “What can you do now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Sam sassed in response, his coy smile indicating Dean wouldn’t be getting any further information.

Dean sighed. “Alright, well, um, how long is this,” he gestured to the eyes, “gonna last?”

Sam shrugged and let his head fall back against the cot. “You that eager to get rid of them? Think about it, Dean, if you kept me around, we would make a kickass hunting team. Winchester and Winchester Plus. Between us, there’d be very little that could stop us.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as he assessed the creature before him. Was it trying to negotiate with him? Trying to strike a deal where it could stay and Sam, the _real_ Sam, would stay buried?

Dean shook his head. “No. No way. One, you’re way too dangerous to be out and about. Two, I don’t trust you not to run off the first chance you get. Three, if it came down to it, I’d prefer Sam were dead than be you.”

Demon-Sam snorted at that. “Same old story then. It’s always about what you want, not what’s best for me. Don’t know why I expected anything different. And, unfortunately for one of us, though it remains to be seen which one, death isn’t an option here. But, there are lots of options for death!” He lifted his head up and found Dean’s gaze. “Should I list off the ways we died, Dean? Would you prefer it in alphabetical or chronological order? Or maybe least to most painful? Or which took the longest?”

Dean tried to look away but found he was unable to move. Panic spiked through him.

“That last one must be a world record. Took 39 hours for a djinn to bleed me dry. Damn venom only worked as a paralytic, so I was basically awake the whole time, slowly dying. Sam’s personal best was 33 hours and change when some hunters beat him so bad with crowbars and golf clubs that his broken ribs perforated his lungs and he eventually suffocated. Tim and Reggie thought it would be fun to use him as a human dart board while he was nailed to a wall, gasping for air. They played 901 but I can’t remember who won… It was probab—”

“Stop!” Dean mustered, the single word requiring all his energy and focus. “How?”

“How what, how am I restricting you?”

“Yes!”

Sam chuckled darkly and let his head fall back again. “I’m so much stronger than you know. Yeah, you got me tied down pretty well, devil’s trap stings, but you can’t control me entirely. You can try, but you’ll fail. Every time.”

Dean sent all his intent towards his feet and found he was slowly able to move those forward. The smug expression on demon-Sam’s face faltered slightly and Dean could move more, though it felt like swimming through syrup. He pulled a knife from his back pocket and put it to Sam’s throat. He felt his freedom return entirely.

“Give me back my brother, you black-eyed bitch!”

Demon-Sam didn’t seem at all fazed by the threat. He even rolled his eyes. “I’m not possessed, Dean. This is who I am. I’ve always been here. I’ve just been asleep, dormant, waiting. This power has been in me since I was six months old! One drop of blood was all it took, and voila! I was meant to be, Dean. Stop denying this. Stop denying me.”

Dean’s face crumpled a bit as he withdrew the knife and flung it across the room. “No, no!” He turned and ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t—I just can’t.” He spun and pointed an angry finger at Sam. “Look, I know you’re gonna dry out at some point and—”

“You sure about that?” demon-Sam queried, lifting his head to peer at Dean.

“You always have before.”

“This isn’t before.”

Dean felt his skin start to crawl the longer he remained under the midnight stare. “Whatever. I think you’ll turn back. And no matter what state you’re in, we’ll fix it.”

“Your optimism is inspiring, really. Or you’ll let him resurface with the memories of indescribable torture ripping apart what’s left of his mind. So many things Dean, things you couldn’t even imagine, not even as Alastair’s best. Demons lack the vengeance necessary for truly destructive torment. If only you could see what’s left inside. Maybe Castiel could help with that?” he offered generously with a smirk.

Dean looked down. “He, uh, already tried. After I shot you.”

Sam looked surprised but he nodded. “And how did that work out for him?”

Dean gulped. “Not well. He couldn’t even touch you.”

“Yep. Tim and Reggie did their research. And then some. You’re out of your depth here. Stop trying to fix me and let me live. It’s what’s best. Or else, misery will be your constant soundtrack. You’ll never escape all his gruesome persecutions, from being werewolf chow, to being thrown from a ninth story window by a poltergeist, to suffering repeated deaths at the hands of hunters who would still fight by your side, Dean. The Sam you want is dead, gone, broken. I’m all that’s left.”

Dean shook his head vigorously. “No, I don’t believe you!”

“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”

“No,” Dean whispered and strode out of the room, slamming the heavy door. He paused long enough to make sure it was locked before fleeing upstairs.

* * *

Dean sat staring at the mailbox waiting for the hunters’ package, trying to ignore demon-Sam’s taunts. They ranged from personal to annoying to downright weird, Sam sometimes seeming to talk in Latin as if trying to curse Dean or cast a spell. He continued to try to convince Dean that Sam was too far gone to be worth saving. His voice started to grate on Dean’s nerves, forcing Dean to turn on the TV about an hour ago. He hoped to drown out the cruel words, but he didn’t want to obscure Sam’s voice completely in case his actual brother needed him.

Demon-Sam had been quiet for some time now, prompting Dean to turn the volume down. He was tempted to go check on him, but a much larger part of Dean wanted to stay as far away as possible from that thing wearing Sam’s body. The power demon-Sam had terrified him and he had no desire to experience it again.

“Dean?” the voice of his-almost-brother called from the panic room. He couldn’t help but instinctively switch his attention to Sam. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be eaten by a naga?”

_What?!_ Dean thought to himself. _Did he say ‘eaten’?_

“Yeah, you heard me right, I said _eaten. By a naga_. You even know what that is? It’s a seven-headed serpent from the Hindu and Buddhist traditions. They’re demigods, you know. Funny how most texts don’t mention that they’re real into eating people. I, well, Sam, got used as bait for one. The bastards treated him with some paralyzing drug and left him on a swampy beach in Louisiana. A literal sitting duck. He could hear the damn thing slither up to him but couldn’t move a muscle.”

Dean wished he could avert his attention but he had promised himself to learn every detail he could about what Sam went through. He failed to suppress a shiver as he thought of a snake sliding up to him but being unable to escape. He was sure the flicker of panic he was currently experiencing would have been dwarfed by Sam’s.

“It thought he was sleeping so it bit his leg to poison him. Little did it know, the hunters were counting on that and had injected Sam with some anti-venom that would become toxic for the naga when mixed with its own poison. Of course, it would have to eat Sam first to be exposed. But your brother played the part unwillingly, as he had so many times before and so many times after. The naga started at his feet and slowly swallowed him whole, inch by inch, absolute terror consuming him just as he was being consumed. If only you could have felt the dread he felt when the mouth closed and all the light was shut out. He couldn’t even struggle. All he could do was wait as he was sloshed feet-first into a pool of acid while the oxygen ran out. Can you imagine the warm, slimy walls pressing in on you while liquid fire begins to tear away your flesh, filling your mouth and scorching your lungs?”

Despite himself, Dean was all too vividly imagining the scene. He’d passed high school biology. He knew how stomachs worked. Claustrophobia was breathing hot down his neck and phantom pain flittered around his body. He couldn’t take it anymore. This couldn’t be true. He ran down the stairs and opened the metal flap. “You’re lying,” he spat accusingly.

Steady black eyes blinked back at him. “I’m not. You can come check my leg for the bite mark. It’s there, I promise you.”

Against his better judgement, he opened the door and walked in. “Which leg?”

“Right one, on the calf muscle.” He wiggled the supposedly afflicted limb.

Dean put one hand on his booted foot and slid the jeans out from under the handcuff securing Sam’s ankle. After he pushed the fabric up, he scanned Sam’s leg for the wound. Underneath the grime, blood, and other scars, he could make out two circular blackened patches of skin.

“I’m assuming the hunters cut him out before he could be entirely digested, but who knows. Sometimes they liked to do that sort of shit for fun. They liked to time it to see how quickly we’d come back.”

Dean pulled the fabric back down then turned away, his eyes closed. But his mind still supplied the horrible image of a giant snake creature with a Sam-sized lump in it.

“Dean, I know you think you’re helping me here, but you just don’t get it. All of these experiences have ruined your brother. Why put Sam through this? Torture is torture, no matter where you are. You of all people should understand that! Why are you so set on making him relive this Hell when you know the damage from yours is irreparable?”

Suddenly, vivid flashes of Hell lashed his mind.

_His own hands drenched in the blood of a hundred bodies, a thousand bodies, so many he lost count. His blades never dulled, regardless of whether he slashed through skin, muscle, or bone. He didn’t even see them as separate anymore, rather they were extensions of his own body._

_The smile on his face as he threaded a needle through a hazel eye, the man’s screams of agony so well-warranted._

_The delicious aroma of dissolving flesh as he poured acid into a gaping abdominal wound._

_The feeling of warmth that spread in his chest as the dying gurgle of an elderly woman escaped around the violence of his fist in her throat._

_Demons laughing and spurring him on, urging him to ever deeper depths of depravity. He felt it like a spreading stain on his soul but he didn’t care, all that mattered was how_ good this felt _, how much_ he needed this _, how this is what_ he was meant to be doing _._

“No!” Dean screamed, fighting the quickening torrent of memories inundating his mind. “I’m not there anymore! That’s not me anymore!” He cried out until his throat was sore and his voice hoarse.

Deep laughter surrounded him and he opened his eyes to pitch blackness. The laughter eventually stopped and a familiar voice—whose voice was that? He knew it, didn’t he? He’d stake his life on it that he knew that voice…

“Did it ever occur to you that _maybe_ you never left, that maybe this is all one big illusion custom made to fuck with you?”

His throat seized but he managed to rasp out “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re still in Hell, Dean. Like an angel would give a shit about you, Dean Winchester.”

“But, Sam—”

“Oh, yes, they are very interested in Sam, the boy with the demon blood. He was chosen, at six months old, to change the world. But you? What made you special, Dean? Your good looks and burnishing wit?” A scoff. “Give me a break. The only thing useful about you is all your buried rage. Makes you an artiste with a knife. Never thought I’d see a human soul enjoy torture so much, but then again, as in life, so it shall be in death. You were just a weapon, Daddy’s little soldier, Sammy’s faithful protector. Kill anything that John told you to or that threatened Sam. Well, thanks for keeping him alive for us, you were the perfect tool, just as he’ll be the perfect vessel. He was made for Lucifer and Lucifer shall have him.”

He fought the insidious words clawing into his brain and focused on recognizing the voice. The moment he heard ‘Lucifer’, he realized it was not one voice, but two. Azazel’s and Sam’s. It didn’t make sense for it to be both of them, so one of them must be using the other.

He opened his eyes to find the complete darkness had dissipated due to splinters of light from above. It took him a few moments, but once his eyes adjusted, he saw demon-Sam’s smirking face before him, and he understood he’d been duped. Not that the realization did anything to ease the fear and guilt piercing his heart.

Dean swallowed against the memories and emotions swirling around him, pushing down on him, threatening to drown him. “No,” he gasped, “Sam and I are much more than just weapons or vessels. You’d know that if you were my brother. But you’re not Sam, not really, and I know he can do this. He can get past this.”

“Oh really?” More light streamed in as Sam’s manipulation faded. “Because you’re such a goddam expert on recovering from torture? There’s just one thing here that’s different, and it’s significant enough that even an idiot like you can appreciate the implications. In Hell, you were there out of love. You were there to save your brother. Your suffering was _worth something._ But Sam?” Demon-Sam scoffed and looked away before returning his gaze to Dean with a twisted smile on his face. “Sam languished in agony knowing he deserved _every. goddam. second._ Why? Because his own brother rejected him, told him they were better off apart. Sam broke the world, but it was your dismissal that broke him. At some point, when everyone is telling you ‘you’re nothing’, you start to believe it. There is nothing salvageable left of your little brother. You’re too late.”

“No,” Dean whispered, tears threatening his vision. To think he was the reason Sam had given up… It was too much to bear. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. Let me show you.”

Before Dean had a chance to respond, he was bombarded by rapidly changing scenes of Sam’s suffering. A werewolf feasting on his heart. Sam’s limp body hanging from a rafter. Heart-stopping terror on his face as he tried to outrun a nest of vampires. The smirking faces of numerous hunters just itching to beat him bloody, caustic vitriol spilling from their mouths. Creatures he didn’t even recognize in various stages of pursuing, killing, or eating his brother. Sam falling further and further away, becoming unresponsive, becoming nothing. It was like a greatest hits tape of suffering made just for Dean to drive him mad.

A burning sensation pierced his hand and the unexpected stimulus was enough to distract him. He heard someone calling his name and it snapped him out of the vicious hellscape. Looking down, he saw Bobby holding a lighter to the back of his hand.

He yanked his right hand back and rubbed it with his left. “Bobby?”

The older hunter sighed with relief and let his hand fall to the floor.

Demon-Sam just started laughing and goosebumps spread over the two men.

“You alright, Dean?” Bobby managed.

“I’m breathing. How’d you even get down here?!”

“Very. Slowly.” Bobby jutted his thumb behind him, indicating the crutches laying on the floor.

“Oh…” Dean said sheepishly and turned to look at Sam. The thing pretending to be his brother had a grin a mile wide on his face. “What the fuck was that?” Dean spat, anger that Bobby could have gotten hurt coming to his rescue making itself known.

The grin closed to a smile but it was somehow even more malicious. “Just a little taste of what Sammy’s been through. I’m telling you, Dean, be smart. Think with your head and not your heart, for once. This is what’s best for Sam. For your Sam.”

“Dean can think however he damn well pleases,” Bobby interjected, unwilling to even risk having Dean’s opinion swayed by this demonic copycat.

Sam tilted his head to look at Bobby. The dark eyes sank into Bobby’s consciousness like lead bricks. “I seem to recall you thinking the exact opposite while Sam’s corpse lay rotting after Cold Oak. Dean was determined to find a way to bring him back but you wanted Dean to burn the body. You thought it was stinking up the place like an old tuna sandwich.”

Bobby’s face hardened but Dean took the chance to punch Sam hard across the cheek.

“Hit a nerve, huh?” Sam winked at Bobby.

Bobby saw Dean clench his fist again so he spoke up. “Dean!” he shouted gruffly. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here and let ‘im stew.”

Dean’s jaw twitched but he acquiesced. He got the crutches and helped Bobby up. Sam just snickered to himself as they left the panic room. “Yeah, just run away, you pansies!” Sam spat as Dean closed the door.

Dean moved to open it again but Bobby stopped him. “Leave it, Dean. He’s just trying to rile you up.”

“It’s fucking working,” Dean muttered under his breath then focused on Bobby. Painstakingly, moving one leg at a time up each step, Dean helped Bobby back up the stairs and into his wheelchair. “Th-thanks, Bobby,” he said quietly as he pushed Bobby into the living room. Dean collapsed into the couch.

“No need to thank me, Dean, but don’t make me _ever_ do that again!”

Dean nodded resolutely. “Don’t have to tell me twice! I don’t ever wanna be in that situation again!”

“What the hell even happened?”

“I, uh, don’t know really. I went down to check on him and I guess the devil’s trap doesn’t block his powers entirely because he could still stop me from moving and get in my head. Made me see different ways Sam was tortured and killed…”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “I’m not saying that isn’t upsetting, because it is. But the way your hands are shaking tell me something else happened, too… Fess up.”

Dean held his hands up and Bobby was right, they were shaking. He let his head drop, shame permeating his body. He was quiet for a few moments, but knew he’d never escape Bobby’s questioning. “He made me remember Hell. In technicolor,” he admitted quietly.

“Balls!” Bobby exclaimed and huffed out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Not your fault. Not even that thing’s fault…”

“Dean—”

“Bobby, don’t,” Dean said sharply, lifting his head to spear his surrogate father with his tear-blurred gaze. The feel of blood and organs slipping around his fingers, the sounds of wretched screams and creative pleas for mercy, the smell of decay and the hope-extinguishing weight of fear – it was all his senses could understand at the moment. He briskly walked outside to clear his head, leaving Bobby alone to grieve how wickedly life had treated his boys.

* * *

When Dean returned, Bobby was nowhere to be seen. He felt guilty for shutting down Bobby’s attempt to help, but in all honesty, there was nothing Bobby could do to ease Dean’s burden. What he had done in Hell was his baggage to carry, no one else’s. He was fine with that, really. But to be reminded so viscerally of what Hell was like had thrown him devastatingly off kilter. He’d get it back under lock and key. He just needed some time. And distractions.

Luckily for him, distractions were not in short supply. Demon-Sam was still hollering about something, though Dean didn’t pay enough attention to understand the content. Looking around, he saw a book claiming to ‘unlock the secrets of angels on earth’ on Bobby’s desk, probably carefully left out for Dean to notice. Shrugging, he picked it up and started leafing through it.

* * *

Something in the timbre of Sam’s voice changed, and Dean was moving towards the basement before he even realized it. The taunting monologue was becoming plaintive, almost begging. He opened the metal flap over the peephole to see Sam’s head flailing from side to side, blood trailing down his cheeks from his nose.

“No, not again, please, don’t make me do this again… It will be so much worse this time, no, please, no…”

“Sammy?” Dean called out.

Sam’s head snapped up and their gaze met. The once-solid black of Sam’s eyes was wavering; patches of white and hazel appearing momentarily before washing away.

“Don’t do this to your brother, Dean,” Sam cried out. “If you really care about him, you’ll keep me here, or find a way to put him out of his misery. Save me or kill him. It’s the humane thing to do.”

Dean suddenly realized that beneath all of demon-Sam’s snide comments, cruel tricks, and hateful words, he was scared. Not just scared, _terrified_. Terrified of being weak, of being at the mercy of his memories, of _feeling_. Access to demon blood was not only a way to hold on to power, it was a way to hold on to sanity, to survival. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let his brother remain a demon, but he didn’t want to lose Sam entirely, either. Was having a demon for a brother better than no brother at all? _No_ , he shook his head, Sam would pull through, he could do this. _Probably._

Dean’s hesitation ended up costing him his choice in the matter. By the time he had convinced himself to let Sam go through withdrawal, the cloudy blackness was nearly gone from Sam’s eyes. Dean opened the door and stood on the threshold, unsure what to do. Sam blinked once and then his eyes were completely normal. He took a deep breath and seemed to relax.

Until he saw Dean.

Fear painted Sam’s face as he brought his handcuffed hands up defensively. “No, please, no, don’t do this, anyone but him, please.”

Dean was frozen, unsure whether to go to Sam or if that would make the situation worse. “Sammy, it’s me. You don’t have to be scared of me, man.”

Sam shook his head, his dirty, oily hair flopping about. “Don’t lie to me. You promised me you didn’t lie.”

Dean didn’t recall making such a promise but he gave Sam the benefit of the doubt. “You’re right, I did. And I’m not lying. You can trust me.” Dean had his hands up in a non-threatening pose.

“Trust?” Sam said slowly, questioning the syllable, as if saying the word for the first time in his life.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, “You can trust me. I won’t hurt you.” He took the chance to step forward. And immediately regretted it.

Sam flinched forcefully and moved back on the cot as far as his chains would allow. He brought his hands to his head and started tearing at his scalp with his fingernails. His chest was heaving and he seemed to be on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Sammy,” Dean said calmly, hoping to soothe Sam’s nerves, “it’s okay. Calm down. You’re safe now.”

“Never safe, never safe,” he murmured to himself. “Always hurts. Need to hide… need to hide!” Sam mumbled urgently. Before Dean could react, Sam flung his chains in the air and maneuvered them around his neck. Dean didn’t understand what was happening until Sam began to pull on each side.

“No, you don’t!” Dean shouted and rushed into the panic room. Sam’s face was already turning red as the chains dug into his neck, cutting off his airflow. Dean tried to pry Sam’s hands off the chain but it was no use. Next he tried to slip his fingers under the chain and get it away from Sam’s neck but it seemed like the damn thing was held in place by some supernatural force.

His realization came a second too slow.

Sam’s eyes flashed black and a grin splashed across his face as a hand came up to grab Dean’s throat. Dean saw double for a moment as demon-Sam dug up one of Dean’s most hated memories, and for a few seconds, he couldn’t remember which scene was happening in real time. A trashed honeymoon suite, Sam on top of him, both hands wrapped around his neck after Dean called him a monster. The panic room, Sam beneath him, one hand placed perfectly to cut off blood flow as the monster claiming to be his brother fought for freedom.

“I can’t go back. I can’t be anyone’s bitch, not ever again. Don’t make me do that!” Sam growled through clenched teeth. He pressed harder and Dean felt his vision start to cut out and his brain was screaming at him for oxygen.

_Castiel!_ Dean mentally shouted. _Sam—demon-Sam— is trying to kill me! Bobby’s panic room…_

The last thing Dean knew before he passed out was the flutter of angel wings, Sam’s shocked yelp, and a blinding light.


	23. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some pretty intense gore and torture at points.

The steady whir of the fan overhead slowly lured Dean out of unconsciousness. Weak moonlight filtered in from above. Taking note of his surroundings, he realized he was on the ground in the panic room, exactly where he had fainted. Hours must have passed. He propped himself up, noting the extreme tenderness around his neck.

The still outline of Sam’s body told him that his brother was not awake. Or maybe he was dead. Again. The anxiety of not knowing forced Dean to slowly roll over and push himself up to standing. He stalked over to the light switch and flipped it on. Sam was lying haphazardly on the cot, limbs flung out in every direction, his restraints snapped. Dean’s stomach knotted when he saw the angry blackened burns on both Sam’s forehead and on the hand that had been trying to strangle him. Peeling skin and scorched tissue spread like a morbid flower from his temple across his face. Dean searched his memories and realized that Castiel must have rescued him by knocking Sam out, but in doing so triggered one of Sam’s angel wards and blasted himself away.

Dean moved to Sam and felt for a pulse. The cool skin that met his fingertips conveyed the vital information Dean needed to know. He closed his eyes for a moment and cursed everything that had led them to this point. But at least Sam’s wounds would heal and he couldn’t deny he was grateful for that. The third degree burn horribly disfigured his face and Dean couldn’t bear to look at him. If it did this to Sam, what did it do to Cas? He dug his phone out of his pocket and was surprised to see a number of texts from Bobby.

‘ _Everything alright down there?’_

An hour later, ‘ _Dean, you okay?’_

A few minutes after that, _‘Was about to come down the damn stairs again but I can hear your snoring from up here’_

Two hours later _, ‘Sandwich in the fridge for ya’_

That last text had been three and a half hours ago, so Bobby was probably asleep by now.

Dean sighed and dialed the angel’s number. As he had expected, it went to voicemail.

“Cas, thanks for saving my ass back there. Call me when you’re back on Earth.” He hung up and tucked his phone away. Dean went upstairs and retrieved the sandwich and a beer. He plunked himself down on the couch and turned on the TV to some action-packed B-movie. He tried to focus on his food and the shitty dialogue but his thoughts kept drifting down to the panic room. The sandwich was tasteless and the beer seemed flat. After twenty minutes he gave up and returned to the basement cell. He refused to acknowledge the way the tightness in his chest eased the moment he saw his brother, the mangled tissue already healing. He’d get Sam back, come Hell or high water.

* * *

Exhaustion scratched at his eyelids. He wasn’t even sure what time it was or how long he had been sitting here watching Sam rest. When Sam returned to the land of the living, he took in a deep breath but didn’t wake up. Not long after, Sam had begun whimpering slightly in his sleep, but it didn’t seem like anything from which Dean needed to wake him. He actually found himself grateful for the near silence since it meant the demon parading around as his brother wasn’t spewing his hateful rhetoric. The vicious words flung like burning acid from such a familiar mouth still punished Dean’s heart.

_“You should know from your own stint in Hell that there is no fixing something like this.”_

_“Should I list off the ways we died, Dean?”_

_“If only you could see what’s left inside.”_

_“The Sam you want is dead, gone, broken.”_

_“The only thing useful about you is all your buried rage.”_

_“Sam broke the world, but it was your dismissal that broke him.”_

Had him giving up on Sam really precipitated all of this? No, it couldn’t have, Sam was fucking kidnapped by two insane hunters with a misplaced vendetta. But maybe Sam would have fought more, would have tried harder if Dean hadn’t rejected him. Well, Dean had learned his lesson. He wouldn’t ever make this mistake again. Sam needed Dean as much as Dean needed Sam. Zachariah’s little trip to the future had taught him that in no uncertain terms. They kept each other human, kept each other fighting, kept each other sane. At least as sane as one could hope for in this fucked up life.

* * *

Some time after dawn, Sam began crying out, graduating from mere whimpers to distinct sounds of suffering. Dean’s attempts to wake his brother were unsuccessful. Sam was locked inside, probably experiencing the violence of detox completely internally. Dean had the macabre hope Sam would actually talk to his hallucinations just to get demon-Sam’s cruel, mocking voice out of his head.

Checking Sam’s vitals revealed the other physical manifestations of detox had started in earnest. His body was writhing and flinching, the muscles visibly spasming. His heart rate was over 140. He was dangerously warm, his temperature wavering on the edge of 105°F. Despite knowing he wouldn’t lose Sam forever to a high fever, the thought of leaving Sam to literally stew in his own juices seemed abhorrent to Dean. He crushed up some Tylenol and sprinkled the powder in Sam’s mouth, hoping he’d get enough to ease the fever. Dean didn’t dare risk an IV the way Sam was starting to thrash.

Before long, the flailing progressed to seizures and Dean did his best to pin Sam’s errant limbs and keep his head still. When the first seizure died down, he got a cool cloth and tried to ease the heat radiating off Sam’s face. Dean could see his eyes darting frantically under the closed lids.

After a few rounds of seizing, Dean realized Sam’s eyes would still a minute or so before he started moving. It was just enough time to set down the bowl of ice water and get into position to best ride out the violence of Sam’s detox fits. Occasionally, Sam would keen like an animal being slaughtered. Dean would deny it if it ever came up, but he eventually started putting a hand over Sam’s mouth to muffle the agonizing sound. With any luck, Sam wouldn’t remember, but Dean would never forget.

* * *

The elder Winchester put down the car magazine he was attempting to browse. His eyes burned too much to make any sense of the words. He was beyond exhausted. He’d been on seizure watch for over sixteen hours. His brother had been quiet for the past two hours, which hopefully meant they were through the worst part of detox. He wove his fingers together and held his arms out in a much-needed stretch. His back popped and he sighed in satisfaction until the sound reminded him of Sam’s spine being crunched and broken in one of the scenes demon-Sam showed him. Nausea ripped through him and he closed his eyes against the suddenly too-bright panic room lights. He planted his hands on his knees and carefully inhaled and exhaled, repeating the simple act until his body ceased its rebellion. Opening his eyes, he noticed the hair on his arms was standing straight up. Figuring it was somehow a reaction to his nausea, he went to smooth it down and was surprised to find it unchanged. He scrubbed at his skin but found the fine hairs continuously raised in stubborn defiance of his will.

Distracted as he was with his arms, he didn’t notice the way any object not bolted to the floor began to hover and drift towards Sam. A sudden yelp from Sam drew Dean’s attention in an instant. The older man had to do a double take from Sam’s trembling body to the small collection of items floating over his brother’s unconscious body. A strangled gurgle escaped Sam and Dean began moving towards him when Sam arched his back and yelled. All the things in the center of the room exploded outward and tried their best to embed themselves in the iron walls. Dean dropped to the ground and waited until the loud clatter of struck iron and falling stuff ceased before lifting his head. Dean had barely registered the sound of breaking glass when Sam started screaming.

“Sam!” Dean shouted and launched himself towards the cot. Sam was convulsing violently, wailing so loudly he was sure the kid’s vocal cords would tear. Dean’s (by now) expert maneuvers kept his limbs from flailing, but the pillow previously cradling his head was somehow in shreds along the edge of the panic room. Sam’s head thrashed against the cot and blood began to drip from one nostril. “Sammy!” Dean yelled and placed both hands on his cheeks, hoping to rouse him. He didn’t even have a chance to appreciate the tacky feel of Sam’s sweaty, fevered skin before bright light hazed his vision and the world stopped making sense.

Claws slashed at his belly and he looked down in the semi-darkness to see his intestines spilling out, glistening and alien in the open air. Despite the debilitating pain, despite knowing it was useless, he tried to gather himself up, warm, sticky blood coating every inch of him. Even though the wound was likely fatal, for some reason he knew he had to get out of there. He started to run but stumbled and the slick organ slipped out his hands. His will to live ebbed out of him, but it was like someone else was in charge. Without his control, his body picked itself up again and kept going, the screaming flare of his wounds mind-numbing. Something whipped out behind him and slashed his Achilles tendons, causing him to faceplant into the mud. Again, a force that was not his own motivation pushed him up on his arms and he began to crawl, even though his dragging legs were enlarging the jagged gash spreading across his abdomen like a deranged grin.

Something soft and velvety slid along his leg before wrapping around his thigh and halting his meager progress. The squelching mud held him in place as more tendrils slid around him. An eerie whine sounded from behind him and he craned his neck to peer into the darkness. All he could see were a multitude of pale grey tentacles reaching out, circular pads of tiny teeth on the end, like a lamprey, searching for an ideal spot. One by one, the nightmarish suction cups spread out and planted themselves across his body. Then, in unison, they began to vigorously twist and burrow into his flesh, tearing away tiny chunks of meat.

He opened his mouth to scream but a wandering tentacle found its way in and latched itself to the back of his throat. The newfound territory was quickly exploited and the vile things began exploring his body, lodging themselves deeper and deeper inside. The agony seemed to stretch on forever; he was sure it would take him hours to die like this. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud and with his last reserve of strength, he lifted up his head to see his attacker. It was at this point he realized that it was not one creature, but many, the smug face of a parent who’s gotten enough food to feed all her children evident on a hideous face lurking just out of the shadows. Its sallow yellow eyes fixated on his head. The monster was like a praying mantis with velociraptor-like talons gleaming in the light at the end of its foldy arms. A long tentacle unfurled from its head and the circular mouth practically blossomed in a grin as its owner approached. It positioned itself over his body, the weird whine sounding again. He felt the other tentacles flee his mouth before the parent’s terrifying jaws descended onto his face. Mercifully, he only felt the grating tears for a little less than thirty seconds before his oxygen ran out and he surrendered to death.

* * *

Instantly his eyes opened, though his vision was obscured by blood dripping into his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he realized he was no longer in the clutches of the hellish face-eating monster. He was in a warehouse which looked well past its best-by date. Doing a quick scan of his body, he focused on ignoring the pain in order to gather any useful information. Looking down, he realized he was handcuffed, the sharp metal biting into his angry, inflamed flesh. A chain trailed away and spilled onto the floor, presumably to limit his movement from his rickety chair. His feet weren’t bound, though it didn’t take him long to figure out why. The tinkling of the chain rang in his ears and he was suddenly pulled skyward by his wrists. His shoulders tugged in protest momentarily before submitting and dragging his body up. His free feet kicked out weakly, seeking purchase on something solid and finding nothing.

A mirthy chuckle from behind him stilled his struggle as fear bubbled through him.

“You are really just something else, aren’t you? You’d think after all these times you’d learn, but I guess daddy Winchester was right about you: not even worth the silver it’d take to put you in the ground. Though if it were up to me, I’d salt and burn ya, just to be safe.”

Rage bristled along his battered nerves. “Don’t you talk about my father!” he spat out.

“Did I say you could fucking speak?! You know what happens when you bark without my permission, dog!”

Dread prickled his mind a half-second before blinding pain ripped through his entire body. Convulsions snapped his limbs like a taut rubber band being plucked by an impatient student two minutes before the final bell. Just as his vision was blurring from lack of air, the shock stopped and he gasped for breath. The eager gulps made him hyper-aware of the shock collar constricting his neck, especially the fresh burns decorating his skin.

Something rustled in front of him and he opened his eyes. Tim was grinning in front of him. _Fuck! How did Tim get the drop on me? Does that mean he also has Sam? Shit! Shit! Shit!_ He tried to open his mouth to threaten hellfire if he touched Sam, but his aching muscles refused to cooperate. 

“If I can’t talk about daddy, what about Dean?”

_Wait, what?_

“I bet the moment Dean found out what you were, he had to talk himself out of gutting you.” Tim withdrew a blade from his pocket. “I bet he went to bed every night gripping the knife or gun every hunter keeps under his pillow and argued with himself. One side trained to be his brother’s keeper, the other trained to destroy evil.”

The realization hit Dean like a bag of bricks. He hadn’t been captured by Tim; he was somehow experiencing Sam’s memories as if he were Sam. He closed his eyes and focused, trying to remember how he got here. The visage of Sam’s pale, frail body convulsing in the panic room sprang up and he remembered grabbing Sam to still his shaking. The physical contact must have been enough, combined with whatever new freaky powers Sam had, to pitch Dean into this hallucinogenic hell.

The sound of fabric tearing brought his attention to the situation at hand. The knife was sliding up his shirt – well, Sam’s shirt – and splitting it easily. “Think about how many times he must have fantasized about cleansing the world of your filth.” He felt Sam’s body sag, a sign of acceptance in the young man. Dean’s heart cried out a denial but his emotional pain was instantly overshadowed by the tip of the knife sliding into his flesh just above his sternum and gouging a bloody path down his chest. “It must have been torture,” Tim plunged the knife into his abdomen, “knowing that you,” he twisted the blade viciously, “were destined for evil, for the worst evil the world has ever known! And if he could see you now…” He quickly withdrew the blade, the sickening slurp audible over Sam’s frantic pants. “Do you think he’d be relieved you were finally contained or do you think he’d be disappointed you were so weak and easy to capture?”

Shame swelled up within him, its origin foreign, and his heart grieved for Sam. He could only pray to the powers that be for some sliver of his brother to survive the abuse. It also ignited a new wildfire of hate towards Tim. He was clearly enjoying torturing Sam both physically and emotionally. Dean wished he had killed him when he’d had the chance.

Tim wiped the blood across Sam’s cheeks. “I bet if I called him right now, he wouldn’t even care that I was slicing you up. Do you think he would, huh? Would Dean come rescue his useless little brother again or just leave you to rot?” He trailed the knife down Sam’s face towards his neck. He leaned in and pressed his mouth against Sam’s ear. “I think we both know what he’d do.” With that, Tim dragged the blade across his throat, laughing as Sam sputtered and bled out.

* * *

He woke to bright lights shining in his eyes and blinding him, the glare mixing with the telltale fuzz of sedatives to disorient him, so he sought out his other senses for information. Random ambiguous noises and low voices gave him no hints as to his situation. The smell of mold mixed with the stereotypical disinfectant scent of hospitals confused him. Touch revealed he was firmly restrained, from his head down to his ankles. His parched mouth told him nothing. He closed his eyes and focused on listening to the words around him.

“No, we want to keep him alive for as long as possible. That makes caring for the fragile organs easier. We’ll start with bone marrow. It’s the least invasive and has the most worth. Then corneas. Then we’ll open up the abdomen, take the stomach, spleen, gallbladder, pancreas, small intestines, kidneys, cauterizing everything as we go. Once we take the liver, we’ll have to work fast and get the heart, coronary artery, and lungs out. Next is blood, then we can take the skin, scalp, shoulders, bones, and ligaments at a bit more leisurely pace.”

At first Dean didn’t understand what was being said, the words swirling and bouncing off each other, then the bottom dropped out of his world as he realized what was happening: they were using Sam as an organ farm.

“Oh yeah, I always have buyers. And I’m sure he’ll give us some great specimens, so we’ll likely get above market value. Alright, let’s get him anesthetized and then we’ll get started.”

Dean wanted to scream but the heaviness of chemical sedation quickly surged through him and dragged him under.

* * *

He woke up under the bright lights again. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed until the supposed surgeon opened his mouth. “You guys again? I thought the three harvests would’ve given you enough money to do anything you wanted!”

_Three harvests?!_ Dean thought with horror. _Are they just using him as an eternal organ farm? Oh God, oh God, oh God,_ Dean panicked but the sedative relegated the hysteria to his mind.

“It’s not really about the money anymore. It’s about helping other people and causing him pain.”

“Well, if it’s pain you want, we can leave out the anesthesia,” the doctor offered. Dean expected waves of anger or fear to wash over him from Sam, but instead he experienced vague weariness and morose acceptance. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, but there was just _less_ of Sam here to react. His dismay over this realization rose exponentially as he heard the doctor prepare to start. The rev of a drill made Dean want to jump but Sam’s body did not respond.

“Get the aspiration needles ready. I’m just gonna crack ‘im open.”

With that meager warning, Dean didn’t have a chance to brace himself before the surgical drill tore through his flesh and bit into hip bone. Both he and Sam screamed louder than Dean thought possible until the drill shredded a major nerve. The white hot tsunami of blinding pain hit him so hard he thought the axis of the earth had shifted and then he knew nothing more.

* * *

When Dean awoke, he was on the cot with Sam, his own body carelessly flung over his brother’s. It was kind of a miracle Sam was still able to breathe. Dean carefully pulled himself off of Sam and examined him. A hand to the forehead told him the fever had broken. Sam’s pulse was calm and his breathing was even. A glance towards the panic room fan told him it was early morning. He heard his phone buzz and he slowly ambled to the table, his stiff muscles expressing their intense displeasure.

A series of texts from Bobby, about one an hour, asked Dean how he and Sam were doing. Dean's brain refused to entertain any of what he had just experienced. 

_Been better, but I think Sam should wake up soon. Fever broke during the night_

_Good_ was all Bobby wrote back, but Dean could sense the apprehension. Just who would Sam be when he woke up?

* * *

84 minutes later and Dean got his answer. Sam’s eyes fluttered open and relief flooded Dean as he saw that his brother’s eyes were hazel, no tinge of black and no flickering. So his eyes were only black when he was on the demon blood? He could deal with that. Concern quickly supplanted his relief as he noted how long it took for Sam’s gaze to focus on anything. That anxiety skyrocketed when their eyes met and Sam’s pupils dilated with alarming speed, no hint of recognition on his face. Sam weakly tried to recoil from Dean’s presence and began to fall off the cot.

Dean reached out and caught Sam’s wrist, pulling him back and steadying him. He didn’t let go, hoping to comfort Sam with a familiar touch. To his dismay, Sam immediately went limp and turned his head away. He seemed to be holding his breath, though for what Dean couldn’t tell.

Dean softly traced his thumb over Sam’s wrist, rubbing away some of the accumulated grime. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, man.” He leaned forward and turned Sam’s head towards himself. “C’mon, look at me, it’ll be okay.” A few seconds passed until Sam opened an eye to peer at Dean, who gently smiled in response. “Would you like to take a shower? Would that make you feel better?”

Sam’s jaw twitched then he slowly rose, struggling to coordinate his limbs. Once he got to his feet, he did not move from his standing position.

Dean swallowed his confusion and stood, then stepped into Sam’s line of sight. “Do you remember where the bathroom is?”

Sam deviated his thousand yard stare for just a second to glance at the floor before his hands started to pump in anxious fists. He was shaking and looked ready to collapse any second.

Dean shook his head dismissively. The shower in the basement wasn’t gonna work. They needed a tub where Sam could sit down. “Don’t worry about it. Here, I’ll show you where it is, then I’ll go get some towels and clean clothes for you. That sound good?”

The pace of the clenching fingers slowed slightly and Dean understood that as an affirmative. He led Sam forward, up the stairs, through to the second floor and then to the bathroom. Dean opened the door, motioned for Sam to go inside, then left for towels and clothes.

He dug through Sam’s duffle bag in search of something that would fit. The kid had lost so much weight that he was bound to look ridiculous in this stuff. But it was all they had for now so it would have to do. As he approached the bathroom from the bedroom, he was dismayed by the silence, expecting the sound of running water to fill his ears. Instead, when he turned the corner, a heart-wrenching sight filled his vision.

Sam had shucked his dirty rags to the floor and was sitting in the bathtub, knees drawn to his chest. Grime and dried blood caked his skin, mostly hiding the myriad injuries beneath. Dean could count each of his ribs and vertebrae. There was something else on his back, something he couldn’t quite make out. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. But he had to be there for his brother. And that required understanding what had happened to him.

Dean stepped forward and knocked against the open door. “Uh, is it alright if I come in?”

Sam gave no response, verbal or otherwise. _This is gonna be impossible_ , Dean grieved internally.

“Okay, then. Am I gonna have to clean you up? Scrub in between your toesies, like when you were a little kid?” Dean joked gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Seriously, dude, gonna need you to stretch out,” he said more firmly.

Sam merely uncurled from his ball and spread his legs out, hands on his thighs, head tucked down, waiting. He made no attempt to maintain his privacy. That by itself, the implication of what that meant, was nearly enough to break Dean. He gulped, unsure he was strong enough to go through with this. It was one thing when he had bathed his brother when he was a baby… Now, though? One man bathing a naked, fully grown man? It just felt wrong. But he had to. For Sam.

Making sure the showerhead was not turned on, he twisted the tap open and waited until the water was pleasantly warm. He flicked on the showerhead and noticed Sam flinch as the water hit him. _When was the last time he had a shower?_ Dean wondered idly.

Despite the warm water flowing down his skin, little of the dirt was washing off. Dean sighed and resigned himself to scrubbing his brother down. He added some soap to a wet washcloth and began on the shoulder closest to him. As he revealed Sam’s skin, a frenzy of emotions began clamoring for his attention. There were more scars than Dean cared to count on this small area alone. He steeled himself and worked down Sam’s arm. When he got to his wrist, he realized there were large, almost fully healed, circular wounds on either side of his arm that looked as if it had gone right through the bone. Dread seized Dean and he reached for Sam’s other hand. As he scrubbed, he begged anything and anyone that was listening that his suspicion would not be confirmed. But of course, it was, and Dean lamented the unimaginable agony his brother must have endured when he’d been fucking _crucified._

Holding back his tears, he moved to Sam’s back and lifted his hair to start washing him from the neck down. That was when he noticed the angry scar right below his hairline. As quickly as he could while taking care not to hurt Sam, he scrubbed away the dirt and followed the scar, revealing the horror that lurked beneath. Despite the hundreds of scars from a whip or lash scribbling a frenzied mess across his back, a huge sigil stood out against his mottled pale skin, the raised dark red welts screaming their violent origin in no uncertain terms.

Suddenly, Dean needed to know where else his brother had been marked or branded like a fucking animal. He had to know what they had done to Sam.

“I’m gonna lean you back a bit so I can clean your front. Let me know if you’re uncomfortable.” He didn’t get a response but then again, he wasn’t expecting one.

He gently pushed Sam back, careful to cradle Sam’s head and rest it against the rim of the tub. Sam didn’t even seem present and if Dean were to be honest, he was grateful for that.

A few more minutes of scrubbing revealed the two painful looking wards on Sam’s chest. Dean traced his finger down the one that went from the middle of Sam’s chest to his belly button; the skin had been torn away and left a palpable dent. The raised, spiraling sigil over his heart had clearly been burned on with immense heat.

Tears now freely fell from Dean’s eyes. He didn’t care to try to be strong for his brother now, the time for that had clearly passed. He’d been too late and maybe he’d lost Sam forever.

He moved down to Sam’s feet and began washing those, only to discover more intricate sigils carved and burned into the soles of his feet. Countless marks and scars littered his body, showcasing only a partial chronicle of all that Sam had suffered. He kept scrubbing his legs, telltale signs of all sorts of restraints painting his skin. He brushed over the bite mark from the naga and he shuddered at the thought of how Sam had died. Part of him wanted to scrub Sam’s skin raw, erase all these marks, but he knew that wouldn’t work. He had to live with these, just as Sam had been forced to acquire them.

Dean gingerly washed Sam’s long thighs, careful to avoid getting too close to his genitals. Yeah, sure, Dean had seen ‘em before, Dean had his own set, but he still felt uncomfortable. It felt like one more invasion of Sam’s privacy and he just couldn’t do it.

He grabbed a hairbrush from the vanity and began working on Sam’s hair. It was greasy, filthy, and knotted beyond belief. “You trying to grow dreads or something?” Dean teased half-heartedly, knowing he wouldn’t get a snarky response. He winced every time he ripped through a knot and accidentally tore out some of Sam’s hair, but Sam never flinched once. Just how far gone was his brother? All Dean knew was that he feared the answer.

“Close your eyes, Sammy,” Dean asked quietly, preparing to squirt a bunch of shampoo into his brushed hair. Sam didn’t respond. “Sam, close your eyes!” he repeated loudly, hoping to get through to him. Nothing. “Dammit, close your fucking eyes!” he huffed in irritation. To his surprise, Sam instantly complied and shut his eyes.

Dean paused, trying to understand what just happened. “Sam,” he said softly, “turn and look at me.” It was as if Sam hadn’t heard him. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled, bracing himself for what he was about to do. “Hey, you fucking look at me when I talk to you!” he yelled quietly. Sam’s head snapped up in record time and large, fearful eyes stared at him, though Sam still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Oh, Sam,” Dean murmured as he pulled his brother’s head into his chest and wrapped a protective arm around him. “So you only respond to people yelling at you? Is that what it is?” Sam said nothing. The two sat in silence a long time until the water started to cool slightly.

“Alright, gotta finish this up.” He grabbed the shampoo bottle. “Close your eyes til I say you can open ‘em!” he said roughly but it didn’t seem to work. Dean hated this. Was he not being mean enough? “Hey bitch!” A faint jerk echoed in his head and he never realized how much he’d miss Sam’s non-profane response. “Close your goddam eyes!” That spurred Sam into action and he forcefully squeezed his eyes shut. Dean felt his heart break even more than he thought possible.

After shampooing Sam’s hair three times and using half the bottle of fancy conditioner he’d found in Sam’s old duffle, Dean took a fresh washcloth to clean Sam’s face. The burn on Sam’s face was just about gone but the purpling bruise Dean had given demon-Sam still remained, suggesting Lucifer only healed life-threatening or serious wounds. _Fucking bastard_ , Dean hissed mentally.

He scrubbed under Sam’s chin, noting the faint stubble growing there, before moving onto his neck. As he swiped the dirt and blood away, the large electrical burns on Sam’s neck became nauseatingly clear. Black, necrotizing tissue decorated his skin in two jagged circles surrounded by bright red halos of blistered skin. They looked extraordinarily painful, so much so that Dean was surprised demon-Sam had been able to speak without discomfort. Or maybe he had been in agony but hadn’t bothered to mention it.

Abruptly, Dean realized with devastating clarity how much that told him about Sam’s condition. His brother had likely been suffering non-stop since his capture, so much so that he probably didn’t remember what living without pain felt like. The specters of Hell threatened to terrorize his mind and he shied away from the vicious thoughts. A quick succession of knocks from downstairs drew his attention outward.

He was confused for a moment before realizing it was probably the hunters’ notes. “I’ll be right back, Sam!” Dean hollered as he hurried down the stairs. Another impatient series of raps had him flinging the door open.

The delivery person jumped slightly then regained his composure. “Delivery for Dean Winchester?”

“Yup that’s me.” He made to grab the package.

“Need you to sign first.”

“Fine, whatever!” Dean hastily scrawled his signature then took the box. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he closed the door. The box was large, needed two hands to carry, and was heavier than he had expected. That thought did not ease his concern. Scanning the box, he saw that the return address was a post office, so that wouldn’t provide him with any useful leads. He withdrew his pocketknife and flicked it open. He slowly sliced the tape, wary of any booby traps.

Finding none, he pushed back the flaps and eyed the contents of the box warily. Rusty brown smudges decorated the notebooks and edges of the pages. He had no doubt it was blood. Sam’s blood. There was a small CD binder and other random trinkets in the box.

He’d told Sam he’d be right back, but some sort of morbid curiosity got the best of him.

_Just one page_ , he told himself, _then I’ll get back to Sam_. He picked up the top notebook, unassumingly titled “Log 1”. He flipped open to the first page and focused his gaze. The date read a week after he’d told Sam they were better off apart. He forced his eyes across the messily scrawled lines.

_We’ve had the freak for a week and it really seems like he can’t die. I shot him in the head just to get rid of him after he wiped out those demons in Garber, but he was back by the time we went to burn the bodies. He survived being baykok chow for a few days. Burned him alive, all the way to ash and bones, and it took a while, but he came back. He says Lucifer won’t let him die. It’s fucking amazing. Gotta put a new tracker in him whenever he gets too messed up, but that’s a price worth paying. So much we can do with him…_

“Ash and bones?” he gasped aloud. Thanks to his stint in Hell, he knew what being burned alive felt like, all too well. They’d always start slow, just a finger or a patch of skin on his leg, as if they were giving him an appetizer to the main course of being thrown into a lake of liquid fire. Hell was strange; you could be burnt past the point of death but still feel what was happening. He supposed it made sense: can’t torture people too effectively if they keep dying on you.

He looked down at the book and flipped forward several pages. It was dated three and half weeks after the previous entry.

_Even a little bit of demon blood will cause him to withdraw. It’s hilarious in a pathetic kind of way – he always whines and begs for Dean. Like Dean would save him even if he knew. We keep telling him that Dean would probably find a way to kill him permanently so he should be grateful we have him. Kid’s lucky John ain’t around. World would be down a Winchester and we’d be done in time for happy hour._

Dean’s stomach lurched at the thought of John killing Sam. Yeah, he’d told Dean to do it if he couldn’t save Sam, but his dad had to know that wasn’t something Dean was capable of. Or, well, it wasn’t until recently. But that wasn’t the same! He had killed Sam _to_ save him! Right?

Resting on the table in his limp hand, the notebook opened to a natural spot in the spine due to something crammed between the pages. His hand grabbed the pictures as they slid down and by instinct, his eyes peered at their contents.

Dean immediately regretted it.

There was a still from a camcorder video, the time stamp denoting this was within the first week of Sam’s capture. A body that could only belong to his brother was folded up in the dog kennel he recognized from the back of Tim’s truck. No clothes, hair, or skin covered the raw looking flesh that wrapped around blackened bones. Dean had the misfortune to learn what his little brother’s skull looked like devoid of his stupid floppy hair and empathetic eyes. Instead, drops of blood and tendrils of tissue laced over the scorched bone.

Another visible photo depicted Sam tied to a chair in some basement, his face amateurly colored in with marker to look like a target. Several bullet holes pierced his face, especially his bruised eyes. The wall behind him was heavily decorated with his brain matter.

Dean threw the book away from him like it was a bomb and turned to vomit in a trash can by the desk.

“Dean?” Bobby called from somewhere in the house. “You alright?”

Acid eating at his throat, he couldn’t answer in time and Bobby rolled in to check on him. The older hunter’s eyes alighted on the cause of Dean’s misery. “That Tim and Reggie’s notes?”

Dean nodded in between spitting out rancid saliva.

“Where’s Sam?”

_Sam. Fuck, Sam._ He was so caught up in past Sam’s suffering that he forgot about the one in the present. “He’s still up in the shower.” Dean pushed himself up from his seat and darted towards the stairs.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good!” Dean called as he took the steps two at a time. He could hear the shower running and guilt pricked his concern. The water had been lukewarm when Dean left, and that was easily at least ten minutes ago.

Just as he suspected would be the case, Sam was still sitting in the tub exactly as Dean had left him. Cold water was pelting his skin but Sam wasn’t so much as shivering. Dean slammed his hand down on the handle to cease the freezing deluge. He quickly got a towel and held it up, looking away from Sam.

“Sam, get out and dry off, right fucking now.”

Head tucked down, Sam stood immediately and stepped out of the tub, shaking slightly as he grabbed the towel to dry his long limbs and then wrap around himself. Dean lead him to their shared bedroom and lightly pushed his brother inside. Sam carefully folded the towel, placed it on the nightstand, and then sat at the bed. He stared at the floor, his hands loosely gripping his knees. He seemed to be waiting. For what, Dean couldn’t tell.

“For Christ’s sake, would you get some goddam clothes on before you freeze to death? They’re on the fucking dresser.” Dean spat then closed the door. He headed downstairs where Bobby was waiting for him, arms crossed in irritation.

“Is that any way to talk to your brother?!” Bobby hissed angrily.

Instinctually, Dean bristled at his surrogate father’s tone but his face softened instantly when he processed the words. “Bobby, no, it’s not like that. I can explain!”

“You better start talking!”

“Sam’s not saying anything and the only way I can get him to respond to me is by being harsh. Nothing else gets through to him.”

“So, what, some kind of PTSD?”

“How should I know?!” Dean snapped, clearly flustered. “What I _do_ know is that he has massive nasty burns on his neck where a fucking shock collar was, so I’d be willing to bet my Baby that’s why he won’t talk.”

Horror painted Bobby’s face. “A shock collar? Like for when a dog barks?”

Dean nodded vigorously. “While he was detoxing, he projected memories into my head, like the demonic version did, but this time, I experienced them _as_ Sam. There was one were Tim had tied him up and was taunting him and when Sam tried to talk, the collar shocked him so hard I could smell burning skin.”

Bobby gulped visibly. “Then I’m guessing they conditioned him not to talk.”

“How do we reverse that?”

Bobby shook his head. “I don’t know. I know a psychologist who—”

“No, no psychologists. They’re just gonna give ‘im a bunch of pills.”

Bobby put his hands up. “Okay, fine, just us but you know we’re gonna have our work cut out for us.”

Dean replied with a bitter laugh. “What’s new?”

* * *

Sluggishly, as if watching in slow motion, he had lost touch with the other facets of himself. Phantom pain would still splash itself around his body but he no longer knew the causes. His only companions were the creeping ice and his thoughts.

And one rather persistent archangel.

Lucifer would pass gracefully through the ice, as if it weren’t there, and come right up to his face, their noses practically touching. The intense blue of the vessel’s eyes seemed to wash over him and drown him in their expansive depths. Falling, drifting, sinking. Why did he need to hold on? What was the noble reason behind his relentless suffering? Oh, right, the fate of the world.

“I see your willpower is wearing a bit thin…” Lucifer murmured, his cool breath blowing over his true vessel’s face. “Perform one last act of kindness for yourself. After all this unimaginable suffering, you deserve it. Say ‘yes’ and grant yourself a place in Paradise. Everyone you love will be there. Don’t let this be for nothing. Give yourself to me and savor the gift of eternity.”

The temptation was immense and the urge to say ‘yes’ pulsed through him. But he couldn’t give up, not yet. He’d promised himself he would fight until he had nothing left. His soul was almost entirely spent, but he wasn’t gone yet. He’d let so many people down in his life; he refused to have his last act be another broken promise. He weakly shook his head and Lucifer left him alone once more.


	24. Static

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some gore. And angst.  
> Time jumps around a lot in this chapter. Apologies if it’s confusing.

Dean gave his brother fifteen minutes to get dressed before he went to check on him. Unsurprisingly, Sam was clothed, sitting still on the bed, fingers splayed out across his thighs, waiting. Just waiting. That’s all Sam seemed to do. Dean wanted, no, _needed_ , to change that. He needed to get them both out of the confines of this house. Sam had spent far too long in either a kennel or a prison cell.

“Alright, get up, now. We’re going for a walk. Outside,” he snarled, wishing more than anything he could wrap his brother up in a tight hug and ease his suffering instead.

Sam stood and moved briskly, silently padding down the stairs, Dean one much louder step behind him.

Bobby looked up from the table as soon as their feet came into view, a tight smile on his face as he tried to catch Sam’s gaze. “Hey Sam, it’s good to see you up and about.” Sam made no indication he’d heard Bobby and Dean just shook his head sadly.

“I’m gonna take him for some fresh air,” Dean informed the older hunter flatly. Bobby nodded and let the two of them leave without further conversation.

Dean regretted his decision to go outside almost instantly. From where he stood on the porch, he could see the damage his hit-and-not-run had done to his Baby. A large dent on the hood was decorated with blood. As the two moved closer to reach the road, he could see strands of Sam’s hair tangled in the grill, glued there by dried blood. The memories inundated his mind’s eye and he fought to keep his stomach under control.

Sam, unseeing, was not fazed by this home-turned-murder-weapon. He walked past the Impala without hesitation, without so much as a glance, and Dean’s heart sunk a little further. He had hoped the car might spark something in his brother, trigger some warm memory that would allow him to surface, if even just for a little bit. But Sam marched past, emotionless, and Dean scurried to keep up with him.

“Turn right,” Dean said firmly and Sam spun on his heel and completed the turn, eyes still downcast. They turned onto the road and began to follow it out towards one of the many crop fields that surrounded Bobby’s property. Despite his failed attempt to reach Sam via the Impala, a walk was still warranted. The gauntness of Sam’s frame suggested he had little muscle mass left and that would need to be rebuilt. Walking was the lowest impact exercise he could think of, and it didn’t require ordering Sam around except for the initial command to go outside and move.

The irony of the situation almost made Dean laugh, if only to stop from crying. All his life, Sam had challenged orders and disregarded commands. Whether out of innocent lack of understanding, teenage rebellion, or angry spite, Sam’s refusal to just do what he was told had frequently exhausted the limited patience of both their father and himself. Tempers always simmered just below the falsely calm surface and Sam was an expert at punching holes in anything he didn’t agree with or believe in.

Now, here he was with a Sam that wouldn’t do anything _but_ follow orders, and Dean hated it. Granted, the rest of Sam’s personality had been stripped away as well, but the way Sam would literally do whatever he said was unnerving and unnatural. Morbidly, the thought crossed his mind to try out how far this obedience went.

“Sam, stop,” he ordered. Instantly, his brother’s feet stopped moving. “Go.” He began walking again. “Pick up that rock for me,” Dean pointed ahead of him. Sam bent down and retrieved the smooth stone. “Throw it at that tree.” Sam looked up and weakly tossed the rock in the direction of the tree but it was too far for him to hit. His head tucked down again. Dean stepped forward so he was back standing next to Sam. “Slap yourself softly on the face.” Sam did it and Dean couldn’t help think _stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself_ in an annoying kid voice. “Punch me.” Sam froze and made no attempt to hit Dean. “I said, punch me!” No response. “Goddamit, if I say punch me, you better fucking do it!” Sam started to tremble slightly and fell to his knees in front of Dean, clearly a sign of submission.

A car came up over the hill in front of them and a perverted idea crept into his head. “Stand up,” he commanded and Sam rose. “Step in front of the car,” he hissed. Just as Sam was about to move forward, Dean grabbed his wrist and yanked him back with all his might. The moment his fingers touched Sam’s skin, a disembodied voice screaming _“ **Obey!** ”_ rattled his brain and caught him off guard. Unprepared for the mental assault, Dean lost his balance and the two fell backward into the ditch by the side of the road. Sam moved to break Dean’s fall and twisted so that he landed under Dean. Dean groaned as he shook his head to dispel his disorientation then rolled off of Sam, who was barely moving.

“Sammy, you alright?” Dean asked, momentarily forgetting that humane voice inflections got him nowhere. “Sam, get up!” he spat and his brother slowly arranged his limbs to press himself up off the ground. He pushed himself up to kneeling and Dean fought to suppress his recoil when his eyes landed on the blood pouring from Sam’s chest. Looking down, he saw a sharp rock jutting out of the ground painted with wet redness. “Holy shit, we need to get you patched up. Come on, back to the house.” Dean took off his flannel and pressed it against the wound. “Hold that there.” Sam appeared completely unbothered and Dean found himself wishing to hear Sam whine.

They dashed back to the house and Dean ordered Sam to lay on the couch. He grabbed the first aid kit, warm water, and a clean rag. “Take off your shirts,” Dean requested firmly and Sam did it, not even so much as a wince of pain crossing his features. The bleeding had slowed significantly, but Dean didn’t want to leave this for Lucifer to fix. He had the feeling that Lucifer only healed Sam when he died, and Dean wasn’t planning on allowing that to happen anytime soon.

As he cleaned, sanitized, and sewed up the deep gash across Sam’s right pectoral muscle, he reran the incident in his head. Sam had willingly (as much as Dean harshly ordering him to do something constituted ‘will’) hit himself, but refused to punch Dean. He had stepped in front of a moving car but also injured himself to spare Dean. The elder Winchester found himself puzzling over whether Sam had been trained to protect his abusers or whether this was somehow _Sam_ recognizing _Dean_. The uncertainty bothered him the more he thought about it. Was this reflex or resurfacing? He didn’t know how to find out and he cursed his ignorance.

Maybe Bobby would have an idea…

* * *

The screen flicked on and revealed Sam bound to a chair, his head resting limply against his chest. It was unclear if he was asleep or unconscious. Or maybe dead. Though it was difficult to assess his health, the way his dirty, blood-soaked clothes hung off his body was evidence enough of his poor treatment. A cage rattled off screen and angry snarls echoed around the empty room. A door slammed shut and Sam flinched, head rising to peer about his surroundings. His gaze landed on something beyond the scope of the camera and he began to frantically test his bonds. Slowly the source of his terror sauntered into view and it was a sight to behold. It vaguely resembled a white goat except it walked on feet sporting gleaming talons, it had huge, bulbous, murky eyes beneath its horns, and a long, slender tail like a lion. At last the creature brought itself up to Sam’s head and nuzzled his face until it found his ear. It let out what could only be a squeal of delight before opening its mouth and plunging a serrated spike into Sam’s ear, through his brain, and out the other side. The scream that ripped from Sam’s throat was guttural and primal, the sound of pure biological obliteration and collapse. The creature yanked its spear out and chunks of Sam’s brain spilled out of the gaping and bloody hole. The thing leaned in to start lapping up the spattered tissue and—

Bobby slammed the laptop shut and tried to brush away the tears escaping his eyes. There was a time when he’d been afraid of the boy, maybe even wanted him punished for his stupid decisions concerning demon blood and the Apocalypse. He remembered all too clearly how strung out Sam was when he’d escaped from the panic room prior to killing Lilith. The look of soul-deep misery in his eyes when he brought the barrel of the shotgun over his heart and asked Bobby to blast him away. The split-second flash of regret as the young man had ripped the shotgun from his arms and bashed it into his skull. Yeah, he’d been angry about what Sam had done. But he never wanted _this_ for Sam, never in a million years. He’d do anything to save Sam from the last seven months. But it was too late to save him, the best he could do now was help him recover, and that wasn’t nearly as satisfying. He felt he had failed as a father and anything he did now was way too little, way too late.

“Bobby?” Dean called from a few rooms away.

The hunter tried to reply but his throat was far too focused on controlling the convulsions threatening to evolve into sobs.

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice was tinged with concern now. _Kid’s a damned worrywart_.

“In my room,” he managed to say, before realizing he needed to hide the CD case. Dean would go berserk if he saw these videos. He grabbed the case and threw it in his dirty laundry pile, covering it up just as Dean opened the door.

“You alright?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, just trying to collect my laundry,” he lied.

Dean took a step into the room. “Here, let me help you.”

Bobby waved Dean away. “I got it, I got it. My arms still work, you know.”

Dean smirked and stepped back. “Okay, fine, Ironsides.”

Bobby threw a glare at his eldest surrogate son. “Don’t you even start.”

Dean looked pleased with himself. “Anyway, you got any soup or something?” Bobby looked at him blankly, trying to remember the last time Dean Winchester had eaten soup. After a moment, Dean clarified, “for Sam.”

“Ah,” Bobby nodded and pivoted the wheelchair. “Laundry can wait. I’ll show ya where the cans are.” As he rolled out the room following Dean, he made a mental note to put the damn discs in his safe. “How was your walk?” he asked, hoping to distract Dean.

“Fucked up,” Dean replied as he strode into the kitchen.

“It was a walk. How fucked up could it be?” Bobby asked as he entered the room.

Sam sat stock still at the table, his hands hidden from view but undoubtedly clenched into tight, anxious fists. A new undershirt covered the wound but Bobby didn’t miss the first aid kit and the bloody rag on the counter.

His eyes flicked between the rag and the two brothers. “Dean? What happened?”

Dean kept his back to Bobby as he searched the drawers and cabinets for a spoon, bowl, and can opener. “I was being dumb and seeing how far Sam’s conditioning went. I asked him to hit me and he wouldn’t do it. I had him play chicken with a car and I pulled him back at the last minute…” Dean debated whether to share the weird screaming voice he heard when he touched Sam but decided to leave it out. “And we fell and I’d probably be in pretty bad shape if he hadn’t made sure he landed under me. Fucking South Dakota likes to line its roads with spiky-ass rocks and I’d probably have an extra hole if it wasn’t for Sam.”

Bobby ground his teeth. Yeah, that was stupid of Dean to do, but he couldn’t deny he’d been wondering the same thing. “How bad?”

Dean put his hands on the counter and leaned into it. “Not too bad. Nothing I couldn’t fix. He doesn’t seem to be in pain. I just don’t get it, though. Do you think he’s been trained to protect whoever’s commanding him? Or was that actually Sam in control for once?”

Fleeting hope danced through Bobby’s heart for a moment before he tamped it down. “Uh, I have no idea, Dean. I’ve never dealt with something like this before.”

Dean sighed and turned around, his arms hugged tightly to himself. “Is there any way we could find out?”

“You mean like experimenting on him?” Bobby sounded extremely uneasy.

“Well, not _experimenting_. Just, I don’t know… I just want to know if he’s in there or not!”

Bobby gulped at the apprehension in his throat, Sam’s screams from the video reverberating in his ears. “I hear you… But it’s anyone’s guess what’s going on in there. Could Castiel help?”

Dean shook his head as he stared at the floor. “He already tried. He can’t even touch Sam due to the warding.” His head snapped up as he met Bobby’s eyes. “The warding! We need to look through the notes they sent to see how to reverse them! Then maybe Cas can do something!” He pushed himself off the counter and went to the living room, eyes frantic for the box. “Where is it?”

Bobby spun around in the wheelchair to face Dean. “I hid it.”

“You what?!” Dean spat, his voice betraying his confusion and anger.

“I hid it while you were out for your walk. It’s not good for you to look at that stuff. It’s just gonna mess you up.”

“I have to know, Bobby. I have to. It’s Sam.”

“Trust me, Dean, you don’t want to know.” Bobby’s voice betrayed more emotion than he’d anticipated, but he didn’t regret it.

Dean looked crestfallen. “But… how can I take care of him if I don’t know what happened? I can do this, for Sam.”

Bobby shook his head firmly. “I’ll do it and tell you what you need. I’ll look for how to break the warding first. But you’d do better by Sam if you took care of him and got some meat back on his bones. Let me show you where the soup cans are and you can get started on that.”

“That’s not enough!” Dean protested.

“Dean!” Bobby snapped, slapping his hands down on his useless legs. “I’m trying to do what’s best for both of you boys so you better shut up and listen. Get your brother some food, we’ll draw the sigils, and then you gotta get him to bed!”

“Fine,” Dean relented, stalking back to the kitchen. Bobby ran his hands over his face and pushed down the feelings of dread sliding up his throat.

* * *

After Dean had force fed Sam half a can of beef broth and half a can of chicken soup, he brought Sam into the living room where Bobby was waiting. He sat Sam down on the couch and instructed him to take his shirt off. He obeyed silently, his gaze glued to the floor.

Bobby grimaced as his eyes took in the myriad marks littering Sam’s torso. His voice was uncharacteristically tight when he asked Dean to remove the bandage. He quickly sketched the sigils over Sam’s heart and going down his midline. “Where else?”

“His back and his feet,” Dean answered quietly. “Turn the fuck around and kneel on the couch,” Dean commanded.

Sam obeyed, tucking his legs beneath him so both his back and feet were exposed. Dean peeled the socks off. Intricate red and white scars swirled under the calloused skin and both hunters seemed to be holding their breath as they imagined the agony Sam must have experienced as these sigils were applied.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Dean asked softly, almost afraid to know the answer.

Bobby shook his head minutely. “I haven’t. But then again, I’ve never had to ward _against_ an angel.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed his face. “You done being Bob Ross?”

Bobby nodded and set the notebook down. “You need anything else for him?”

“Don’t think so. Gonna put him to bed then help you research.”

“Dean,” Bobby growled dangerously.

“What? You can look through the notes and I’ll look in your books. Fair?”

Bobby pondered it for a moment before relenting. “Okay, deal. But you try anything sneaky and I’ll make you regret it.”

Dean mustered up a half smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and picked up the notebook. “Get outta here,” he commanded, but his own weak smile communicated his affection.

Dean manhandled his brother off the couch and murmured an order into his ear. Sam moved up the stairs and Dean followed him up, allowing Bobby the privacy he needed to retrieve the diaries of Sam’s suffering from their hiding place.

* * *

Dean rubbed his eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes. It hadn’t escaped Bobby’s notice.

“Go to bed. This’ll be here in the morning.”

Dean checked his watch. “Yeah, and the morning will be here in three hours.”

“Don’t make me drug you, ‘cause I’ll do it.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” Dean teased.

“Or maybe you’ll have to be real careful about which whiskey you drink.”

Dean’s expression became one of mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I’ll do what I have to do. And what you need to do is rest so you can take care of Sam. I can’t exactly get up the stairs to wake him up, so you have to. Get some sleep, Dean. Nothing’s gonna change while you’re out.”

In all honesty, Bobby was waiting for Dean to leave so he could make some calls. He’d found the pages in the journals describing how Sam got his warding and what each sigil meant, but there was nothing about how to inactivate them. Seeing as Dean hadn’t found the sigils described anywhere, Bobby doubted he’d find the answer in a book. Mostly he didn’t want Dean knowing the amount of violence necessary to embed these sigils on and in Sam. Once Dean was upstairs, he went back to the paragraph describing the sigil over Sam’s heart and how it was activated. He noted that the handwriting was different from both Tim and Reggie’s, suggesting there was a third person involved in Sam’s warding. He wanted to read it and his own notes one more time before phoning his contacts.

_We modified a more conventional, but powerful, warding spell with additional incantations to target Lucifer._

Next there was a string of Enochian symbols followed by: 

_Pronunciation: Gon-Ceph-Gon-Ceph-Med-Mals Veh-Na-hath-Gon Mals-Un-Ur-Ged-Graph-Na-hath Med-Ged-Gon Gisa-Graph-Ur-Med-Veh-Na-hath Med-Gal Med-Ged-Gon Veh-Na-hath-Gon-Ur-Gal-Un-Med Gisa-Mals-Don-Gal-Graph-Tal-Un-Na-hath. Gon-Med-Ur-Veh-Un-Tal Pe-Drun-Ged Gal-Graph Un-Na-hath. Mals-Na-hath-Un-Don Med-Gal Graph-Un-Ur-Mals-Med-Drun Orth-Tal. Med-Gon-Gisa Med-Ur-Drun Pe-Don-Gon-Fam-Orth-Med-Ged._

_When spoken during the creation of the sigil, it should enact an extremely powerful ward._

_The sigil itself is a simple one to create but one which requires particular circumstances. Best done by a surgeon or if the subject is immortal or has fast-acting healing abilities. Luckily we have one of those circumstances. The sigil must be burned on with intense heat and then the ‘diamond’ embedded in his heart. Lucifer should not be able to touch or interact with him as long as he has his soul. For that reason, it’s not an eternal spell, but should last long enough. Effects may extend to other angels as well._

The part that had concerned Bobby the most was “as long as he has his soul. For that reason, not an eternal spell, but should last long enough.” Weren’t souls eternal? What was happening with Sam’s soul that would affect the length of the spell’s efficacy?

His eyes flicked down to his rough translation: ‘Vessel of the Son of Light, thou are separated with this death and with this diamond of darkness. Bring forth the guardian of innermost self. Surrender and burn that which you have within yourself. This is made with the eclipse.’

Bobby understood it to mean that Sam’s death and some diamond had somehow separated him from Lucifer. But in order to keep them separated, Sam had to surrender and burn off his soul to keep the ward active. He figured the last part meant the spell had to be enacted during an eclipse. The date in the log book matched a lunar eclipse. He hoped it wouldn’t require another eclipse to deactivate the spell, but that’s usually how these things went.

What Bobby didn’t know was what ‘diamond of darkness’ meant. Was it a literal diamond? Figurative? It might make all the difference when it came to reversing the warding. Confident Dean was out of earshot, he dialed several contacts and left messages inquiring about the mysterious diamond of darkness, with a request for any information to be sent to his encrypted email address. Last thing he needed was Dean finding out Sam’s soul was at risk and having no solution to offer him. 

* * *

Dean slept as much as his body would allow, which wasn’t more than five fitful hours. Sam remained in pretty much the same position as earlier: a tight fetal ball hunched against the wall. Dean sighed and started shaking Sam to wake him up. He needed food and water and Dean wasn’t about to try and force that down his throat while he was asleep. The shaking failed to rouse Sam so he escalated to slapping his face, which, to his dismay, worked like a charm. Sam was up and alert instantly.

“Get dressed then get your ass down to the kitchen table,” Dean commanded and left the room. By the time he’d opened up a can of chicken noodle soup, Sam was downstairs. While he warmed up the bowl, he crushed up a vitamin tablet. The microwave dinged merrily and he grabbed the bowl, ignoring how hot it was against his skin. He sprinkled the vitamins into the soup and stirred them in. He placed it before Sam with a spoon. “Eat all of this. You cannot leave the table until you do, capiche?”

Sam merely picked up the spoon and slowly began eating. Dean couldn’t help but watch his little brother as he struggled to coordinate scooping up the food and bringing it to his mouth. He wondered how long it had been since Sam had eaten real food instead of just being fed by an IV. He marveled at how such a fucked-up thought passed through his brain without any fanfare. That in itself was a testament to just how messed up everything had gotten.

“Dean,” Bobby called from the other room.

“What?”

“Stop watchin’ your brother eat like a weirdo. Why don’t you come here and do something useful?”

Dean went to the doorway and crossed his arms. “Like what?”

Bobby laid his hand down on a pile of books. “Like use your eyeballs and maybe your brain will pitch in, too.”

Dean made a face but pushed himself off the doorframe and picked up the top book once he crossed the room. “‘Healing and Cleansing Rituals’? What am I looking for?”

“Anything that might have the power to counteract an Enochian spell. At least one of the sigils was activated with Enochian, so we’re looking for _old_ magic.”

“Goddam angels,” Dean muttered under his breath.

“What about your angel friend? Any word?”

“I called him three days ago and told him to call me back once he got back to earth.”

“Maybe try again? He’s probably not used to checking his phone.”

“Alright.” He pulled his phone out and dialed the wayward angel. It went directly to voicemail. “Cas… It’s Dean. Call me back.”

“Well aren’t you sunshine and rainbows?” Bobby accused lightly, a surly undertone causing irritation to spike within Dean.

“What do you want me to say? ‘Castiel, please call me back, I’m so worried about you.’? Don’t you think I’m all filled to the top with worry?”

Bobby put his hands up. “All I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to show a little more interest in how he’s doing considering he’s saved our asses a number of times, yours most recently.”

“Okay, message received, Dr. Phil.”

Bobby threw a crumpled-up piece of paper at Dean, who dodged it readily. But it had worked to ease the tension and both hunters settled down to read. But Dean couldn’t help focus his attention on the almost-rhythmic clink of the spoon on the ceramic bowl. It meant that Sam was eating and that’s what he cared about most right now. He tried sifting through the archaic words on the pages in front of him but his mind drifted elsewhere. His body began to manifest his anxiety, his knee bouncing and his index finger tapping against the hardcover book.

After several minutes of trying to ignore the annoying sounds, Bobby slammed his book down on the table. “Dean!” he shouted, causing the younger man to startle. “I get it. This reading thing isn’t for you. How about you go do something else, anything else. Fix up your car or something. I can’t concentrate with you in here!”

Dean’s eyes went wide at Bobby’s outburst but he couldn’t ignore the nervous energy coursing through him. “Uh, yeah, okay, I can do that, but what about Sam?”

“Put him on the couch or put him to bed. Not like he’s gonna be able to help you much.”

Dean frowned as he thought about how Sam had made no voluntary movements except the rare wringing of his hands and the singular clap he used to indicate he needed to relieve himself. He was only in motion when commanded to be. He also made no sound except for the occasional whine emitted while he was asleep. Dean was convinced the deep burn scars on his neck, undoubtedly from that fucking shock collar, were the cause of Sam’s muteness.

Dean chewed on his lip, debating leaving his brother, but ultimately decided that Bobby was right. Fixing up his Baby would take his mind off Sam and it’s not like Bobby wasn’t capable of watching his brother. He put the book down and stood up. “Right. I’ll go out and do that. Holler if you need me.”

“Uh-huh,” Bobby replied drolly, doubting he’d need Dean for anything.

Dean poked his head into the kitchen and was pleased to see Sam had finished all the soup. “Go sit on the fucking couch and sleep if you can.” Sam stood up and practically tiptoed around Dean, moving swiftly to the couch and planting himself there. Dean sighed and grabbed a beer out of the fridge.

“Really?” Bobby called.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Dean answered and walked out the front door.

* * *

Dean spent the majority of the day cleaning the car to within an inch of its life and making sure there wasn’t a single mark left from its encounter with demon-Sam. The dent proved more difficult than he expected to hammer out, but his perseverance had been rewarded with success. The time alone doing menial labor had also given him lots of time to think.

When Dean came back into the house, he was happy to see that Sam had at least shifted position and was now laying down on the couch.

“Any change?” Dean asked as he shuffled towards the kitchen.

“Nope.”

“Find anything useful?”

“Nope.”

“You want a beer?”

“Nope.”

Dean rolled his eyes as he opened the fridge and snagged a beer for himself. He came back and sat down. After taking a long swig, he took a deep breath and asked a question that had long been on his mind.

“Do you think, maybe, uh, asking Lindsey to visit would help? Maybe someone not associated with hunting could get through to him?”

Bobby put down the book he was reading, revealing a thoughtful face. “Not a bad idea. At the minimum, it’d be another person to help watch Sam while you get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Dean growled.

“Yeah, sure you are,” he drawled. “But I’m guessing she’d like to see him.”

“She wanted to come over after I texted her saying we found him, but I wanted to get through detox first.” Bobby nodded in agreement. “You got another spare room where she can stay?”

“Yeah, two doors down from yours, but you’ll have to clean it out and put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“Easy enough.” He looked over to Sam as he stood. “You better perk up, Sam, your girlfriend might be coming over!”

Dean went out onto the porch and slipped his phone from his pocket. His finger hovered over her name for a moment, unsure, before he dispelled his hesitation and pressed call.

It rang three times before she picked up. “Dean! How are you? How is Sam?”

“Hey Lindsey, I’m alright. How are you?”

“Ah, the usual. How is Sam?” she repeated, more forceful this time.

“He’s actually why I’m calling. He’s not doing so hot and I was thinking having you around might help. He doesn’t really respond to me or Bobby, but, uh, maybe a feminine touch could bring him ‘round.”

“I can absolutely do that! I’ll have to okay it with Ellen, but I’m betting I can be there by 11 am tomorrow. Does that work?”

Dean couldn’t help but smile; her positive attitude was infectious. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Should I bring anything? Do you guys need anything?”

“Nope, just bring yourself. Thanks, Linds.”

“Don’t even mention it. See you tomorrow!”

“Yeah, see ya.”

He ended the call and allowed the smile to live on his face just that little bit longer.

“It’s a go,” Dean said as he closed the front door. I’ll set some more soup on the counter if you can take care of Sam and I’ll go get the room ready.”

“Copy that,” Bobby replied and Dean hurried upstairs.

* * *

Even though she’d told Dean she expected to get there around 11 in the morning, Dean was up at 7 and had been watching the driveway ever since.

Eight minutes to 11, she pulled in and basically sprinted towards the house. Dean quickly swung the door open as Lindsey approached. She stepped in and gave Dean a tight hug.

“So good to see you!” she murmured in his ear.

“You too, Linds,” Dean replied, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his despair.

She withdrew from the embrace and looked Dean in the eye. “How is he?”

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. “It’s not great… We don’t even know if he’s in there anymore.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure, but I’m warning you, he’s not the same.”

She nodded in understanding and stepped forward to close the door. She waved a hello to Bobby as Dean led her upstairs to the brothers’ shared room. Sam had not shifted from his fetal position amid a nest of rumpled blankets.

An audible gasp escaped Lindsey as she laid eyes on her once-handsome coworker. She put a hand to her mouth in a weak attempt to hide her horror. “N-no,” she stuttered as she looked between Dean and the thin frame shivering on the bed. “That can’t be him!” Her eyes were wild with denial and desperation.

Dean sighed and ran his hand over the back of his head. “It’s him. Yeah, he’s lost a shitton of weight and is pretty much unresponsive, but it’s him.”

“Sam?” she called quietly. She crept towards him as if her footsteps alone might sever whatever tenuous grip on sanity Sam had.

“He only responds if you yell at him or curse at him,” Dean offered sadly.

She sat down on the bed and reached for a hand, expecting him to flinch or otherwise react to her touch. Instead she was able to grab his hand and his limp arm enabled her to bring his hand into her lap. She immediately noticed the large circular scar on his wrist.

“What happened here?”

Dean swallowed roughly. “Uh, you’re probably better off not knowing.”

Her features hardened into a scowl and she stared at the elder Winchester. “Don’t do that. What happened?”

He let out a breath through pursed lips and braced himself. “Best we can tell, based on the other scars on his body, he got those when he was crucified.”

All the color drained out of her face. “Crucified? Like Jesus-on-the-cross crucified?”

Dean nodded solemnly.

Her composure splintered instantly. “Oh my God!” she wailed and threw herself over the huddled form. “I’m so, so sorry! This is all my fault!”

“Lindsey, no, it’s not your fault.” He stepped over to her and put a hand on her shaking shoulder.

“If he – if he had killed them,” she heaved between sobs, “he’d be okay!”

“We don’t know that. Plus, I don’t think Sam coulda killed ‘em anyway, whether you were there or not. Sammy always was a softie.”

She sniffled and smiled faintly. “Yeah, he was. You know, sometimes, a little kid would get dragged in with their parents to the bar, and Sam would go out of his way to treat them. He’d cut shapes out of the chicken breasts and make cute little chicken nuggets for them. It was the sweetest thing.”

Dean felt his eyes mist up. He used to do that for Sam when they were little and he had never realized Sam remembered it. One time, Sammy wanted the dinosaur shaped nuggets but those always cost extra. Instead, Dean had cut the meat they had into thin sheets and made shapes, leaving the scraps for his own dinner. He recalled with startling clarity the bright toothy grin of four year old Sam when Dean had laid down the plate of uneven stars and malformed dinos. “You’re the best, Deanie!” Sammy had announced enthusiastically and wrapped his arms around Dean.

“Dean?” Lindsey’s call pulled him back from his warm childhood memory into the harsh reality of now. “Is there anything I can do? For him or you?”

Dean shrugged listlessly. “Like I said, we don’t know if he’s in there or not. Best bet may be to fix his body up a bit and maybe his mind will come out to play.”

“Will he eat?”

“Only gotten him to drink a little beef broth and chicken noodle soup. They had him hooked up to an IV for nutrients and fluids so I’m not sure how long it’s been since he’s really _eaten_ anything.”

“So awful,” she murmured. “Do you know where the bastards that took him are?”

“Not at the moment, but once Sam’s better, they’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘em.”

Lindsey nodded firmly. “Damn straight. Now let’s see about making him something better than beef broth.”

She pushed herself off the bed. Both Dean and Lindsey were disheartened by the fact that Sam had not registered her presence. He remained as he was, shivering, eyes at half-mast, curled in on himself in the smallest ball possible. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but Dean was starting to lose hope.

* * *

Having Lindsey around was slowly but steadily improving the moods of Dean and Bobby, but by the second day, Sam seemed to be nosediving. Despite all the rest and improved diet, he was spiking a fever, he was shivering almost all the time, and he seemed to be getting weaker. Whereas he’d been able to feed himself two days ago, he was now unable to lift the spoon to his mouth. Lindsey sat and patiently fed him, waving away Dean’s offers to take over.

Dean worried that he’d perhaps wrongly assumed Sam had finished detoxing; maybe this was some sort of stage two. He felt completely out of his league on this. But it wasn’t as if there was someone they could ask or some medical text they could consult. As far as they knew, Sam was the first and only human to get addicted to demon blood. _Figures… Stupid, overachieving little brothers._ It didn’t stop him from googling ‘drug withdrawal’ and trying to learn anything useful.

Two hours of reading everything from firsthand accounts to medical journals didn’t bring him any closer to solving his mystery. He clicked open the next link and started skimming the page. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed a distinct tremor start to travel through Sam’s body. He shoved the laptop away and went to Sam. The movement was equal to a violent shiver, but by the time Dean put his fingers on Sam’s pulse and found an unsteady, galloping beat, the shaking was racing towards a full-blown seizure. “Lindsey! Bobby!” Dean yelled, doing his best to protect Sam’s head and control his limbs.

Lindsey ran in first, her eyes seeking out the trigger for Dean’s panicked cry. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, he just started shaking!”

Dean grabbed his flailing wrists and once again, a voice pierced his consciousness, this time screaming **_‘Help!_** ’ Dean let go in shock and Lindsey did her best to hold him down but after a few more seconds, his back arched and his muscles went rigid, then he collapsed into the couch.

“Dean?” Lindsey asked, tears in her eyes.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” Bobby whispered, unwilling to shatter the tense silence that encased them as they stared at Sam’s still form.

Dean dropped his head to Sam’s chest and felt for a pulse. He waited five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. There was nothing. Sam was dead, again.

This time he didn’t even know why.

“What happened, Dean?” Bobby asked carefully.

“His shivering got really bad and when I felt for a pulse, his heart was beating out of rhythm. Then he just started seizing…”

Lindsey swallowed nervously, her eyes shining. “But Lucifer will bring him back, right? He won’t stay dead?”

Dean nodded grimly, trying to mask the wetness in his eyes. “It sometimes takes a couple of hours but he’ll be back. I’ll bring him upstairs.” Dean swept up his brother’s body and carried him to the bed. He laid him out and tucked him in as if he were only sleeping. In a way, he was. Sam’s sleep of death wasn’t permanent. He stayed with Sam a long time, grieving for all the times Sam had died scared and alone. Though honestly, this death probably wasn’t that much better, if the absolute terror in Sam’s cry of help was anything to go by. But maybe that meant Sam was still in there, and that was enough to give Dean some semblance of hope.

* * *

“Dean!” Lindsey called from the kitchen. “I think I figured out what happened!”

“How?!” He and Bobby joined her in the kitchen.

“I just googled it. I put in ‘malnutrition’, ‘weakness’, and ‘seizures’ and the second result is something called ‘refeeding syndrome.’ It happens when someone who hasn’t eaten in a while suddenly gets a lot of food. It causes all their electrolytes and stuff to go crazy and they can die from it.”

Dean felt his blood turn cold. “So I killed him by trying to help him?!”

“Unless you were a doctor, how could you know this would happen?”

“I should have known! It’s my job to know!” He stepped back and paced around the living room. “I’ve killed Sam three times now! Three!”

“Dean—” Bobby started.

“What can you possibly say to make that okay?” Dean hissed.

“Stop thinking about yourself and your feelings for one goddam second and focus on what matters right now: Sam!”

Dean bit back his retort and turned away from his surrogate father, breathing deeply to collect his thoughts. He pushed down his self-loathing in a well-practiced way. “So, what, we have to feed him with an IV like they did?”

“Just until we get him stabilized, I think,” Lindsey offered.

“Dean, I’ve got some friends at Sioux Falls General. Let me see what they recommend.” Bobby went to his phone and made a quiet call. Dean stared out the window and berated himself mentally. Sure, how was he supposed to know, but that wasn’t an excuse. Dean was supposed to know everything when it came to Sam. Well, he hadn’t known everything about Sam for a long time now, so it was hardly shocking that he missed this, too.

A few minutes later had Bobby explaining what was needed. Lindsey volunteered to go to the hospital and pick up the supplies and instructions. “It’s gonna be okay,” Lindsey murmured as she gave Dean a hug and left.

Dean sat down on the couch for a while, lost in thought. He felt numb, as if everything going on around him was in slow motion. Sam’s cry for help seemed to echo just below the surface of his sanity, tickling his mind.

“Bobby, I need to tell you something,” he said abruptly, not even sure if Bobby was in the room with him.

The older hunter was in the kitchen. “You say something, Dean?”

Dean stood up and went to Bobby, inspiration making his words flow fast and excited. “Twice now, when I’ve grabbed Sam’s wrists when he’s been upset, I think… I think I heard him, like in my head. The first time he said ‘obey’, when I was trying to see what commands he would follow. Then when he was seizing, and I was trying to hold him down, I heard him cry for help. I mean, it kinda makes sense, right? If he can move things with his mind, what’s to say he can’t say things with his mind?”

“You’re tellin’ me he’s telepathic now?”

“It’s possible, right? Maybe it only works when he’s distressed. When I first caught up to him and he had black eyes, he said he had more powers now. From what I’ve seen so far, I think it’s true. What if there’s some way to use his powers in reverse? Like, if he can get into my brain and show me things and say stuff, could it work the other way around? Maybe he’s trapped in his own mind and can’t get out? I can get in there and help.”

Bobby’s moustache wiggled side to side as he pondered Dean’s suggestion. “I suppose, in theory, it could be done… Honestly, I’ll need to do some research and call around.”

“It’ll go faster if I help,” Dean half-offered, half-challenged.

Bobby shook his head. “I got this. I can’t take care of Sam near as well as you, and I can’t take care of you _for_ you. I know you’re worried about your brother, Dean, so am I. But I can’t have both of you on bed rest. Go out for a walk or something, blow off some steam.”

Dean furrowed his brow, contemplating his degree of resistance. “But if I go, who’s gonna watch Sam? Lindsey won’t be back for a while.”

Bobby withheld an annoyed sigh. “Then bring him down and put him on the couch. Not like he’s gonna go anywhere. And when he wakes up, I’ll give ya a buzz.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean conceded. He spun on his heel and went upstairs to the room he and Sam had always shared. To his surprise, his little brother was curled up on the bed, occupying as little space as humanly possible. He was staring straight ahead, unfocused eyes gazing upon nothing. Apparently whatever had caused Sam’s death this time was an easy fix.

“Sam,” Dean said softly, but got no response, as expected. “Sam, get up.” Nothing. He grit his teeth and braced himself. “Hey, freak, get the fuck up,” he hissed angrily.

Without hesitation, Sam unfurled his thin gangly limbs, slid off the bed, and stood in front of Dean, his head bowed in submission. Seething fury swept through Dean as he beheld his once fearsome and brilliant brother reduced to this soulless automaton who no longer responded to his name, but only abuse. Though Dean would never admit it, he sometimes wondered whether death was more merciful than this kind of life.

He quickly discharged the thought, knowing he could never follow through on fratricide. His brain reminded him that he already had, _twice_ , _kinda-sorta three times_ , and he fought to suppress the wave of nausea those memories induced. _Okay, fine, permanent fratricide_.

It felt wrong to speak to Sam in such a harsh tone but he didn’t have a choice. “Go downstairs and keep Bobby company. Sit on the couch but get up and help him if he needs _anything_.” He’d learned that he had to directly instruct Sam to sit on the couch or bed or else he would squeeze himself into some uncomfortable, out-of-the-way spot.

Sam moved towards the door, careful to avoid any contact between himself and Dean, as if the latter were electrified. Grimacing, Dean remembered the sparking cattle prod and knew that threat was likely all too real for Sam. He couldn’t even hear his brother slink down the steps and he realized just how completely these two hunters had essentially _erased_ Sam from existence. His vibrant, competent, bleeding heart little brother, wiped clean, reduced to nothing. _How the fuck had this happened?!_

Violent, pulsing anger erupted in his chest and he struck out at the closest thing. His arm swept over the dresser, flinging everything across the room. Slips of paper, weapons, odds and ends skittered across the floor, a collection of the few objects which held meaning and identity for the Winchesters. Dad’s journal, a few photographs, Dean’s 1911, the keys to Baby. He’d set them up where Sam could see them, hoping the familiar items would help ground him. So far it hadn’t worked.

A picture of Sam and himself laughing from a few years ago was at his feet. He bent down to pick up the photo and his gun. He studied the little piece of glossy paper, trying to recall the sound of Sam’s laugh, the gleaming white of his grin, the firmness of a playful slap on the back after a well-landed prank. He found the sensations more difficult to remember than expected, their intensity dulled by flashes of Sam’s body crumpled a thousand different ways, begging for a death that would only offer temporary relief.

Dean knew what that felt like; it was literally the worst part of Hell. Yet somehow, Dean thought what Sam was going through was worse, and not just because it felt like a personal failure on Dean’s part. No, Dean knew what he was signing up for when he sold his soul. Sure, he didn’t _really_ comprehend it at the time, but it was worth it to save Sam. He knew it was wrong, but in his mind, Sam being dead was a bigger offense to the universe than a demon deal. Furthermore, Dean was tortured by demons who not only innately hated human souls, but were also doing their best to manipulate Dean into breaking the first seal.

But Sam? He had gotten into this because he thought he was doing the right thing. Yeah, he’d gone about it in a fucked up way, but his intent was the opposite of evil. Yet he was being brutally tortured for his accidental crime with his only chance of reprieve being to say ‘yes’ to a fallen archangel and further doom the world. Worse, his captors were humans, doing this for no other reason than they hated him _that_ much. And in what would have been the final straw for Dean, Sam believed Dean despised him just as much, if not more. In some ways, Dean hoped there was no conscious part left of his brother, if only to free him from the exponential misery he must be experiencing on every level of his being. But at the same time, Dean didn’t want to live without his brother any more now than he did after Cold Oak. He would do anything to ensure that Sam’s last moments would not be filled with suffering and regret. And from what he could tell, Sam had already died many times and had too many final moments. How could this have happened to his baby brother?!

He snapped back to spatial awareness with tears burning in his eyes and his fingers painfully clenched around his gun. The picture had fallen from his grasp. One glance at the snapshots of brotherly life and love mocking him from the floor was enough to force him to flee from the room, warming metal gripped tight in a sweaty hand. He ran down the stairs and through the living room, unable to look at Sam’s statuesque body and unwilling to heed Bobby’s concerned shouts.

Bursting onto the porch, his first thought was _Baby_ , followed by the image of a bar, ending with the peaceful oblivion of an alcoholic stupor. That fantasy was dashed as his pockets did not yield the car keys. He cursed himself as he remembered they had been on the now-cleared dresser. He turned and looked back at the house for a moment before deciding it wasn’t worth going back inside and face a worried Bobby or the husk of his brother.

Instead, he hid himself among the ruined cars. There was just enough light for the occasional window to reflect his stricken face. _Goddammit, Dean! Keep it together! You’re no use to anyone crying in a corner! Well, you’re not crying yet but at the rate you’re going…_

It wasn’t long before a tear broke free from his control. He didn’t fight his initial reaction of shooting out the offending glass, though perhaps he was actually aiming for himself. He quickly ran out of bullets and downgraded to his fists to keep him alone as he wandered aimlessly in the dying light.

* * *

Bobby was alone when Dean returned well after darkness had swallowed the house. His battered hands steadily dripped their evidence of Dean’s self-mutilation. The older hunter didn’t need words to read the agony radiating from the man. He nodded his head towards the kitchen, silently instructing Dean to wash the cuts out so Bobby could clean and wrap them.

Dean quietly accepted Bobby’s ministrations, not even making a sound when he wiped the crisscrossed slashes with alcohol. When it was done, Dean stilled for a moment then looked up to meet Bobby’s eyes. Dean’s lower lip trembled for a split second before Bobby murmured a soft “c’mere” and a sob ripped out of the Winchester’s throat. Dean clung to the crippled man as if his very survival depended on it. They stayed linked together as Dean fought not to hyperventilate.

“I miss him,” Dean choked out, his whisper barely audible over his harsh gasps.

“I know, I do, too,” Bobby replied, his arms tight around his boy’s shuddering frame.

“What… what if he’s gone? And he’s just that shell forever?” A painful spasm wracked his diaphragm and he croaked as he tried to inhale.

“Shh, shh….” Bobby soothed, stroking Dean’s back. “We’ll figure it out, we’ll get him back. Don’t give up yet. I’m on to something that might help.” Dean pulled back and Bobby almost wept at the sight of hope in Dean’s eyes. “But I’m not quite there. Why don’t you make sure Sam is tucked in for the night and get a few more hours of sleep yourself. Might need you to drive in the morning.”

Dean nodded excitedly as he wiped tears and snot from his face. “That sounds good Bobby. Real good.” He extricated himself from Bobby’s arms and did his best to put on a brave face. He picked up his gun and headed upstairs.

Dean didn’t miss that all his belongings were back on the dresser, undoubtedly placed in their current haphazard arrangement by Lindsey, nor did he miss the small box that sat alongside everything else. A note in Bobby’s hand-writing said “Use this if you need it.” He opened it to find disposable needles, syringes, and a vial of sedative. Glancing at Sam, he tried to determine if he should drug Sam. His brother was nestled up to the wall and shivering in his sleep, the occasional whimper escaping his clenched jaw. An IV line was taped to his arm, a chemical heat pack wrapped around the bag of fluid to warm it up. Dean quickly changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, grabbed his gun, his pillow, and blanket, then sat on Sam’s bed. The movement garnered no reaction, just one more of Sam’s hunter senses that had been stolen away. Dean laid down next to Sam and pulled his blanket over himself, not wanting to disturb Sam by unwrapping him from his cocoon. Dean reloaded his gun and slipped it under his pillow and told himself he was just doing what he could to protect Sam. But the tears that ensued reminded Dean that he had already failed grievously at this task and Sam was the one who had suffered for it. He fell asleep sobbing into his little brother’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, that is actually phonetic Enochian (according to one website). Was kinda fun to figure out the translations!


	25. Connection

Dean and Lindsey were busy at the stove making breakfast when Bobby left his room. The older hunter could just about see the hope and anxiety radiating off Dean.

“Mornin’ Bobby. You want bacon with your eggs?”

“Do I look like a vegetarian to you?”

Dean flashed a smirk at Lindsey. “No, sir.” He piled a few strips onto the plate and brought it to the table.

“You want orange juice?” Lindsey offered.

“Sure. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what’s all this for?”

“You said last night you thought you had a solid lead, so I figured I’d get us good and ready for the day. Find what you needed to?”

Bobby shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth to give him a moment to think. He had to be careful how he phrased this to Dean. He didn’t want to reveal too much about the warding and unnecessarily upset Dean. His contacts’ best interpretation of ‘diamond of darkness’ was a black opal, blue goldstone, or just a black diamond. The elder Winchester was looking at him expectantly, clearly doing his best to be patient. Lindsey sat at the table and mirrored Dean’s gaze.

Bobby swallowed and put his fork down. “We need a way to see how much of Sam is in there. The obvious choice is Castiel but from what you said, that ain’t gonna be an option. I found out more about the wards but nothing that will help us right now. I thought about dream root but I don’t think it’ll get us in deep enough. The real Sam is probably buried under the demon version and whatever you wanna call his current state. Hypnosis likely wouldn’t work for the same reason.”

Dean nodded subtly in agreement as Bobby spoke. “Okay, then what?”

“I’m thinking our best bet is a psychic. And not some spoon bender, we need one who truly has the gift. Someone who can get in and see his mind, his soul. We may not even need a very powerful one: Sam’s psychic ability may make the connection easier.”

Bobby had expected Dean to balk at the mention of Sam’s powers, let alone involving any psychics. Instead, Dean pursed his lips as he thought for a moment, then his face lit up. “I think I know just the person! Missouri Moseley is definitely the real deal.”

“Missouri? Is that the woman your daddy went to see all those years ago?”

Dean bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yup. And I’m sure she’d be willing to help. I know I got her number around…” He scurried upstairs and returned with John’s journal.

“Isn’t she in Kansas though?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s a bit of a trek. Not exactly a day trip.”

“Bobby, I can take care of the house,” Lindsey offered. “And I can look up anything you need.”

Bobby eyed her for a few moments, as if judging her worth, before agreeing. “Works for me.”

Dean opened to the first page of the journal and saw Missouri’s number neatly printed in Sam’s handwriting. He punched the number into his phone and pressed dial. He offered Bobby and Lindsey a shrug and a ‘I hope this works!’ look.

The line picked up after two rings.

“Dean Winchester! If I could, I would slap you through this phone! I told you boys to keep in touch! How many years has it been?”

“Um, uhh… a couple?” Dean fumbled, surprised by the psychic’s aggravated greeting.

“A couple?! Mhm-hm. And what do you have to say for yourself regarding that?”

“Uhh… sorry?” Dean guessed, hoping to assuage her irritation.

“Damn straight you better be sorry. But you can make it up to me later. I can already tell there’s something heavy weighing on your mind. What is it?”

_Can she read minds over the phone?!_ Dean wondered with awe. “It’s Sam. He, um, he’s not doing so well. A lot of stuff has happened, I’ll explain it later, but basically some people found out about his psychic powers and kidnapped him. They tortured him and forced him to use his powers against his will. They—” Dean’s voice started to break. “They had him a long time, Missouri…”

“How long, Dean?”

“Almost eight months,” he managed to say.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. How is he doing now?”

“It’s like everything that made him Sam is gone. We’ve had him home almost a week. He won’t talk, he doesn’t recognize me, doesn’t respond to anyone unless you yell at him. I don’t know if he’s even in there anymore.”

“And you’re hoping I can find him and pull him out?”

“Even just confirm that some piece of Sam is still in there…” he begged.

“Sugar, you know I’ll do anything I can to help. Come here as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting.”

“Thanks,” he squeaked out. “We’ll be there by dinner time.”

“See you soon, Dean.”

The call ended and Dean sighed with no small amount of relief. At least they had a way forward now.

* * *

It didn’t surprise Dean that Missouri was waiting on her doorstep for them. What did catch him off guard were the deep lines of concern etched on her face. He avoided her searching gaze and focused on parking the Impala. He popped the trunk and got out, giving the psychic a quick wave before retrieving Bobby’s wheelchair and helping him into it. As Bobby got himself settled, Dean cautiously approached Missouri, wary of a well-deserved slap.

“ _Dean_ ,” her throat sounded constricted. “You said he was kidnapped and tortured, but I can already tell it’s so much worse. What aren’t you telling me?”

Anxiety blossomed in his gut like a nuclear explosion. “How—how can you tell?”

“People have an aura, an energy that radiates from their soul. Feelings and actions can have some effect on it, but souls are so powerful, they always burn bright.” Her eyes shifted from Dean to Sam, who was still in the backseat. She lingered there a few seconds, assessing, before returning her gaze to Dean. “I can’t even see his,” she whispered, seemingly afraid to utter the words aloud.

“What?!” Dean gasped in shock.

“Let’s just get him inside so I can check more thoroughly.”

Dean hurried back to the car, ignoring Bobby’s grumbles about being chopped liver and old news.

“There’s a ramp ‘round the side, old man. How you think half my clients get in here?”

Dean couldn’t suppress his smirk when he saw the look of embarrassed surprise on Bobby’s face. “Yeah, I probably shoulda mentioned she can read minds.”

Bobby’s face turned red as his eyes bugged out a little more. “Ya think?!”

A non-committal shrug was all the response he got as Dean focused on his brother. He was sitting stone-still, his gaunt features frozen in a morose expression. Dean swung the door open and tried to get Sam’s attention. “Sam, wanna get out of the car?” No response, not even a blink. “Sam, get out and go inside,” firmer now, but still nothing. “Get the fuck out of the car and into that goddam house!” he huffed impatiently, certain the change in tone would penetrate Sam’s waking coma.

Instantly, the younger man sprung from the seat and ran, head down, to the front door. Missouri stepped back as Sam went by, fear evident on her face. Sam paid her no heed as he entered the house and disappeared from sight. Dean followed the two psychics in, joining them and Bobby in the waiting room. Sam stood in a corner, his head ducked and chest heaving erratically.

Missouri looked from Sam to Dean to Bobby, her bosom also rising and sinking quickly. “What _is_ he?” she asked in a hushed tone, as if to avoid angering some malevolent god.

Seeing the pained expression on Dean’s face, Bobby took this as his cue to lighten the mood. “The name’s Bobby Singer. I’d stand up to shake your hand but…” He motioned vaguely to the wheelchair.

He was rewarded with a disapproving scowl from Missouri but at least he’d gotten her to tear her eyes away from Sam.

“Like I said on the phone, a lot has happened. Let me start from the beginning—”

“Shush, Dean, I can’t even hear you over the sound of your thoughts!” She waved her hands as if trying to bat away the offending products of Dean’s chattering mind. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll just take your hands and if you think everything, I’ll get it faster than you can tell me.”

Dean glanced at Bobby, who nodded almost imperceptibly, before agreeing. “Yeah, sure. You might wanna sit down though.”

“Alright, let’s go into my room then. Better energy anyway.”

She opened a door and beckoned the men through. Dean opened his mouth to order Sam into the room when Missouri quickly spat out a “no!” Dean looked at her in confusion. “I… He’s… There’s a strange energy coming from him, he’s going to interfere with my reading. Let’s just leave him out here for now.” Worry crossed Dean’s face and her defensive pose softened. “This won’t take long. Just til I understand what’s going on, okay?”

Dean swallowed down his anxiety and nodded before passing through to the other room. Bobby followed and Missouri shut the door.

She crossed to the couch and Dean joined her. She studied the bandages haphazardly decorating his skin. He ducked his eyes and mumbled “I was upset.”

Missouri sighed gently. “I know, dear. Hold out your hands, palm side up.” Dean did as he was instructed. “Try to think back to when we last met and take me through everything major.”

Dean gulped again and closed his eyes, flinching slightly when Missouri’s soft hands folded over his. He concentrated on the tumultuous series of events that had brought them here.

Memories of Sam’s visions flashed before him, seeming like a lifetime ago. Next their encounters with Meg and other demons; the crash; Dad’s last order regarding Sam and then him dying in the hospital; the discovery of other children like Sam and his weird resistance to a demonic virus. Sam’s possession by Meg; Cold Oak and Sam’s death, the feel of his brother’s cold body in his arms. Then what started it all, Dean’s demon deal to save Sam and his allowance of one year; the Hell’s Gate and killing Azazel; meeting Ruby while banishing the Seven Deadly Sins; Dean’s time running out; Lilith claiming his soul. He tried to rush through his forty years in Hell, especially the last ten, shame and guilt scorching his psyche. He was the one who broke the first seal. Waking up in that coffin, clawing his way to fresh air, the most beautiful scent he’d ever experienced; Castiel’s first attempt at contact; the joy of reuniting with Sam; the fear and disbelief at meeting Castiel, an angel of the Lord; the shock of learning the Apocalypse was on the horizon. The soul-deep feeling of betrayal that Sam was still using his powers, despite it being Dean’s dying wish that he stop. The angels’ warnings to Sam, who defied them to fight Samhain. Anna, Nick the siren, Alastair, Zachariah, Chuck the prophet, Adam, Jimmy, so many moving parts and he didn’t know who to trust anymore. The burden of destiny on Dean’s shoulders. And then the revelation of Sam’s terrible secret, how he’d been “training” with Ruby. Sam’s imprisonment, escape, the slaying of Lilith and breaking of the last seal, with the resulting release of Lucifer, where, according to a Castiel-chunk-decorated Chuck, Sam’s eyes turned black. Bobby’s injury to protect his boys, followed by the reality-altering announcement that Dean was the Michael sword, a friggin’ archangel’s vessel! Castiel’s rib branding; fighting War, the fucking Horseman; then parting ways with Sam when he decided demon blood was still too much of a temptation; hunting alone or with Castiel, hiding from angels and finding fights to soothe his raging heart. Then that fateful phone call, the last time he’d ever spoken _with_ Sam, where Sam told him he was Lucifer’s vessel and Dean told him to fuck off. The desolation of 2014 and the fear of Lucifer in Sam’s body swallowed him whole and bred with the terror he experienced when linked to Sam’s tortured mind. They’d forced demon blood on him and Lucifer was somehow involved in his endless resurrection. Sam’s black eyes staring at him and forcing him to kill his beloved little brother—twice! Sam was broken and there was nothing that would fix him, nothing that would bring his brother back to him and it was all his fault, Dean was to blame for all of this, if he just hadn’t been so weak and selfish and cruel and—

A hand cracked across his face and he snapped back into the present, Missouri’s tearful expression mirroring his own. One arm was pinned by the surprisingly strong psychic, the other held firmly by Bobby.

“Looked like you were gonna have a seizure, boy, though I can’t say I blame you,” Missouri explained, releasing Dean’s arm. She sat back and took a couple of deep breaths. She shook her head as she examined her hands. “I don’t know what to say to you, how to express how sad I am that all this happened to you. If I’d had any inkling this was your future when I met you, I woulda told you. I knew that demon, Azazel you called him, was evil in the truest sense, but I could never have imagined this for you. I’m so sorry for you boys.”

Dean was still reeling from the mental hurricane that had just ripped through his mind but he was able to lift his gaze to meet Missouri’s. He had the grace to nod before glancing toward the closed door separating him from his brother.

Missouri took a deep breath and pursed her lips before sighing. “I understand a little better now what he is. There is something dark and vicious in him, and that’s what jumped out at me first. But there’s something else there, beneath the surface… Maybe that’s Lucifer’s influence, it’s hard to tell. But I think I know enough now to take a proper look at him.” She glanced towards Dean and Bobby before looking back to the door. “Bring him in.”

Dean fought a severe bout of headrush as he stood but made his way to the door and swung it open. Sam was crouched in a corner, as small and out of the way as possible. “Get in here and sit on that couch. You’re gonna let Missouri do whatever the hell she needs to. Got it?”

Sam briskly entered the room and sat down in Dean’s vacated spot. His chin tucked down, his minutely trembling fingers went to his shirt and began to undo the buttons.

Time seemed to freeze as everyone watched in shock, minds racing as to what this meant. “Stop!” Dean yelled. Sam’s hands dropped immediately and splayed out across his thighs. “Leave your shirt on. Just sit there and keep your mind open.” His head remained down and he sat perfectly still, waiting for whatever was next.

Missouri looked to Dean, her expression uncertain. “What—what was he doing?” Dean asked quietly.

Bobby cleared his throat awkwardly. “Why don’t we just let Missouri get on with it and we’ll figure it out later. It’s not important right now.”

Dean pushed himself back into Missouri’s chair and tried his best not to think about why Sam would need to take off his clothes.

Luckily, Missouri’s voice distracted him.

“Sam, if you’re in there, I need you to come towards me when our energies join, okay? If you’re hurt, or trapped, or hiding, you’re safe now, you can call out and I’ll find you. Dean and Bobby are here. They miss you and want you back. I’m going to lay my hands on your head, Sam, and call out for you. Answer me any way you can, okay?”

Sam’s body made no indication of comprehension. Dean could only hope there was something inside that understood and would reach out for Missouri.

She closed her eyes and laid her fingers on Sam’s temples with her palms over his eyes. Missouri began whispering something the hunters couldn’t hear. To Dean’s disappointment, nothing happened. Minutes went by as beads of sweat began to appear on the woman’s skin. Dean checked himself but didn’t feel warm. Anxiety began prickling his muscles and he got up to pace. Fifteen minutes went by with no change. Dean was losing hope by the second.

Another twenty or so minutes went by and Dean thought he was about to lose his mind.

“Dean,” Bobby called out softly and the young man nearly jumped out of his skin. “Look!”

Dean scrambled over to look at his brother. He didn’t notice anything different so he quickly scanned Missouri. Tears were trailing down her face. Dean stood and watched, waiting. His patience was rewarded a few minutes later when a drop of blood fled her nose. Sam had one, too. Dean turned to ask Bobby what he thought was happening but was preempted by the flickering of the lights.

“Bobby?!” Dean called, making his way the few steps over to the older man. Something bumped into his head and in the flashes of light, he realized a number of objects were hovering feet off the floor. “What do we do?!”

“Hold out a little bit longer!” Bobby cried out, needing to shout over the growing whine filling his ears.

Dread seized Dean’s very being as he recognized the sound of an angel speaking. Did that mean Lucifer already had Sam? Was Lucifer already _in_ Sam? Or maybe Lucifer had already possessed Sam once and this shell was the result, like Raphael’s vessel. But Sam wouldn’t have said ‘yes’! He couldn’t have! Would he? _No, no, no, no, no!_ Dean turned to face the linked psychics and cold air blasted his face. In the still blinking lights, Dean could see the air wasn’t just cold, it was _freezing_. Delicate wisps of ice were creeping along Missouri’s hands, her breath visible in the chill. Sam’s skin was deathly pale and his lips were blue. Something horrible was happening and Dean needed to stop it, _now_.

He took a few running steps and launched himself at the two bodies, his arms seeking to push them apart. There was a not-entirely unpleasant crackle of energy that thrummed through Dean’s body as he touched the psychics. The aura bathing him was quickly dissipated by a guttural scream, one he somehow knew was entirely in his mind, one he knew came from his brother. Shoving his arms apart, he was met with surprisingly little resistance and Missouri’s hands fell away easily. The instant the contact was broken, the lights stabilized, the items dropped to the floor, the whine ceased, and the room began to warm. Missouri fell back against the arm of the couch unconscious, while Sam remained exactly as he had begun except for the single drop of blood decorating his face.

Dean’s heart fell at the lack of change but his immediate concern was for Missouri. He pushed himself out of the cushions and examined her. She was breathing, albeit rapidly. Her fingers were still coated in ice.

“Bobby, check her for other injuries. I’m gonna get hot water for her hands!”

He dashed into the kitchen and turned on the faucet and tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the water to warm. He filled a large bowl and brought it back, balancing it in her lap as he submerged her hands. To his relief, the ice melted quickly. Last thing they needed was some freaky supernatural icicle. Bobby dipped a handkerchief in the water and dabbed away at the blood, sweat, and tears on Missouri’s face before cleaning away Sam’s singular bloody trace. 

Dean swished the water in the bowl and the sensation seemed to rouse Missouri. Her eyes fluttered open and she took a deep breath. She looked down and seemed perplexed by her soaked hands. He stood and withdrew the bowl, placing it on a table.

“There was ice on your hands,” Dean explained quickly and Missouri’s eyes got wide.

After regaining her bearings, she set her eyes on Sam. “That boy is immensely powerful… I… I’ve never seen anything like it and honestly, I hope I never do again.” She shook her head slowly to emphasize her statement.

“What did you see? Is he in there?” Dean asked, trying his best to control his concern.

“You want the good news, the bad news, or the worse news?”

Dean’s face blanched but he regained his composure. “I guess good, worse, then bad?”

Her face twitched then she set her features. “Good news is that I think he’s still in there.” Dean felt his heart start beating again. There was hope. “The part of him that you would really consider _Sam_ , it’s there, but it’s buried deep. It’s like he’s encased in something, trapping him, keeping this part of him from surfacing, from experiencing. It might be his mind’s natural defense to protect him from everything that’s happening. I mean, I could feel Sam’s essence, but it’s faint. There’s something else there, too, something supernatural. The closer I got, I could feel immense power coming from it… And that’s the worst news. From what I could tell, from the jumbled fragments of Sam’s memories, Lucifer has been trying his best to warp Sam’s mind and manipulate Sam into saying ‘yes’, doing anything he can to break Sam’s will. And I don’t think Sam has much time left. Lucifer is not here now but it’s almost like he’s guarding Sam’s soul, waiting for Sam to give in.” Missouri paused to let that sink in. Dean felt his legs weaken and he sagged down into the couch.

“And the bad news?” Bobby asked softly.

“I don’t know what it was like out here for you two, but it felt like it took me forever to find something to grab onto. There was just the dark, but even that wasn’t simple. There’s a part of him that is nothingness, just fear and hurt, and another part that’s dark because _it wants to be_ , like it’s eating the light. There are chasms in his soul and quite frankly, I don’t know how to fix something that deep. I couldn’t even get to him to let him know he’s safe. The closest I got was right at the end, when Dean was separating us… I think he could sense you, Dean, and something changed…”

“Can we use that somehow?”

“I think so…” she paused awkwardly, struggling to find the right words.

“But…” Dean offered, sensing there was a catch.

“I need to warn you, it’s not going to be a pleasant experience.”

“I don’t care. Anything for Sam,” Dean replied earnestly.

Missouri held his gaze evenly. “Dean, I’m serious. Projection of your mind into his would be painful and difficult under ideal circumstances. What you’d be going into… it’s… You might not be the same when you come out. I can’t even promise your safety.”

Dean exchanged an anxious glance with Bobby. “What does that mean?”

Missouri looked down at the floor and inhaled deeply. “There are risks to projection. You could get separated from your body, possibly trapped inside Sam’s head. Sam himself could injure you. I don’t think he’d do it on purpose, but I feel violent entities in him and he may lash out. Even just the degree of his trauma could damage you.”

Dean’s throat was constricting by the minute. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The worst? Insanity, coma, death. Usually I’d say that’s unlikely, but with the agony crying out from his soul, anything is possible.”

“Fine, what do I do?”

“Dean!” Bobby barked, the fear and uncertainty clearly evident in his tone.

The young Winchester shot up and stepped towards his surrogate father. “It’s Sam! I have to!”

“Can we just think about this for a second?”

“You heard her: he doesn’t have much time left!” Dean was becoming frantic.

“Let’s come up with a plan instead of just charging in!”

“I don’t wanna lose Sam!” Dean cried.

“I don’t wanna lose both of you!” Bobby shouted, silencing any retort.

“Dean,” Missouri said softly, “I agree with Bobby, that we should plan this carefully. His time is not infinite, but we can pause long enough to do it right.”

“Okay, fine. What do we need?”

“I know a few things that would help, but I haven’t done anything on this scale before. Lemme see if I can’t find something better. There’s some food in the fridge. Why don’t you two heat it up while I look?”

Dean tightened his jaw but nodded. He hoped Missouri was being honest and wasn’t just deflecting. He knew coming here was a long shot but now that there seemed to be this sliver of a chance, he was holding on to it. Probably too tightly. But what else was he supposed to do? This was Sam they were talking about!

Missouri left the room and Dean went to the kitchen. Dean opened the fridge and saw a large pan covered with foil. He took it out and peeked under the foil. _Ugh, green bean casserole?_

“Don’t knock it ‘til ya try it!” Missouri called from another room. Dean couldn’t help but feel both amused and chastened. “There are also biscuits and gravy on the lower shelf.”

“Missouri, you’re the best!” Dean returned, meaning every word of it.

* * *

A little over an hour later, Missouri came into the kitchen with a notebook in her hand. She noted how Sam had both an IV drip and a tiny plate of casserole, but she didn’t comment on it. She sat at the table while Dean rose to warm up dinner for her.

“The main thing we’ll need for you, Dean, is protection. There are a couple of low-key spells and chants we can use, but they’ll be much more powerful if we have certain crystals to enhance the energies.”

“Crystals? Really?” Dean looked dubious.

Missouri gave him a dirty look. “Are you the expert here or am I? I seem to recall you coming to me and asking for help.”

Dean felt his cheeks go red and he looked down. “Sorry, Missouri. Continue.” 

Bobby did his best to suppress his smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone shut down Dean like that.

“Appreciated.” Her gaze slowly went from Dean to her notepad. “As I was saying, Sam is an incredibly powerful psychic, so you’re gonna need some help to buffer his energy. Best stones for that are black tourmaline, Tibetan quartz, smoky quartz, and fire agate. I have a small piece of black tourmaline and a wand of Tibetan quartz, but not the other two. I’d recommend we get more black tourmaline, too. Apophyllite is known to help release suppressed emotions. I have a large prism of that. Lapis, pyrite, shungite, and black onyx will reflect or block negative energy coming from him, and that is a must. Only one I don’t have is the shungite. To help break through the psychic prison entrapping him, I’d use labradorite and azurite. We’ll need better quality samples than what I have here. Opal with improve the strength of your astral projection. Each has their own enchantment and placement instructions that must be carefully choreographed. This is going to take a while. Are you up for it, Dean?”

He nodded solemnly. “Anything for Sam.”

“Alright. Then I’ll need at least a few ounces of black tourmaline, best specimens you can find, smoky quartz, fire agate, shungite, labradorite, and azurite. We’ll also need anise, anisette, which you can find at the liquor store, cedar bark, rue, masterwort, fresh rosemary, pink rock salt, and three blue eggs. I have everything else. I’ve made a list for you and where you might find it. Best bet is to go to Kansas City.” She ripped out the sheet and handed it to Dean.

He placed down her plate and grabbed the paper. He motioned towards Bobby. “Let’s go, then!”

Bobby shook his head. “Nah, you’re just gonna waste time having to unload me every place you stop. You go and I’ll stay with Sam. Can maybe even help Missouri if she’ll let me.”

“Yeah, you can, as long as you don’t get your grubby hands all over my polished crystals!”

“They are not grubby!” Bobby protested.

“When did you last wash ‘em?”

“Well, uh, before dinner…”

“Exactly. I don’t need you smearing gravy over everything!”

Dean smiled at their back-and-forth and left, list carefully cradled in his pocket.

* * *

As soon as they heard the Impala rumble to life and drive away, Missouri gave Bobby a pointed look. “I can feel you got something you’ve been just itching to ask me.”

Bobby nodded slowly, licking his lip as he collected his thoughts. “Sam was… marked and branded with several angelic wards during his captivity, I’m assuming to keep Lucifer out. One of them was activated with an Enochian spell and—”

“Enochian, as in the language of angels?”

“Yeah.”

Missouri let her head fall into her palm. “Oh, Lord, what have these boys gotten themselves into?!”

“Nothing that we’ve ever seen before, that’s for sure. The spell refers to something called a ‘diamond of darkness’. Do you know what that is?”

Missouri’s head snapped up. “Let me see the spell,” she said urgently.

“Well, it’s, uh, only a rough translation…” He handed over his journal.

Her eyes hastily flicked down the page then bore into him. “How sure are you on this translation?”

"Uh, about 90%. Why? What do you know?”

“I know it’s some serious magic. I agree with you that his soul is powering the ward, but I don’t think it’s burning away, I think it’s being channeled into something. A ‘diamond of darkness’ usually refers to something that can contain intense spiritual energies. Under certain circumstances, some can even drain the soul into the material. It might explain why I couldn’t sense his aura, if his soul is literally stuck in the stone.”

“Where would the stone be?”

“From the sounds of your notes there, they buried it in his heart.”

“Why? Why this spell, why his heart?”

“It concentrates the power and magnifies it. But, as they said, it can’t go on forever. Once his entire soul is drained from his body and into the ‘diamond’, the ward will fail, and there will be nothing to stop Lucifer from claiming his body.”

Bobby shoved that image out of his head as fast as he could. “If his soul is trapped there, how would we get it out?”

“My best guess is to break the stone, but that will require getting it out. And since it was put in while he was alive, it’ll have to come out while he’s alive.”

“Fucking typical, as if this wasn’t all hard enough, let’s add open-heart surgery to it!”

She forced a smile onto her face to acknowledge his attitude, but the open-heart surgery was hardly her biggest concern at the moment. “Bobby, did you tell anyone else about this?”

His mood changed abruptly and he looked at her carefully. “I asked a few of my friends if they knew what a ‘diamond of darkness’ was…”

“Shit,” she said softly while her hands began clenching anxiously. “I hope these are all people you trust.”

“Why?”

She swallowed nervously before answering. “Because if he,” she glanced at Sam, “really has a diamond of darkness within him, there are any number of witches, warlocks, psychics, or just plain supernatural collectors who would love to get their hands on it. Imagine the energy of a human soul in your pocket. The possibilities are limitless.”

“So you’re saying I just put a big target on his back?”

She looked at Bobby compassionately. “Let’s hope not.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, worry reigning supreme in the tumultuous minds.

“Do we tell Dean?” Bobby asked quietly.

“Do we tell Dean that his brother’s soul is at risk of being stolen for nefarious purposes?” Missouri let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Bobby. I don’t wanna tell him and have him worry for no reason if it’s something that can be dealt with soon, but I don’t want anything bad happening to Sam because we didn’t tell Dean… I can’t decide this for you. You’re the closest thing they’ve got to a father now. Your call.”

“Balls!”


	26. Inside

It looked like a bomb had gone off. He was standing in the middle of a crater, the ground below him pulverized and scarred. He could see fires raging over the edge, the dark clouds of billowing smoke rising into the sky beyond his view. He jogged to one of the sloping crater walls and began to climb. The earth was brittle and sharp and tiny daggers of glass were chewing through his flesh. When he looked down, he seemed to be making progress, but when he looked up, he was no closer to the top. He ignored the spatial dissonance and kept going, but his hand landed on a loose piece of rock and he lost his grip. He slid down to the bottom, his knees and forearms bearing the brunt of the damage.

He sighed in frustration and began climbing again, only to repeat his previous failure. Again and again he tried, exhaustion quickly making his brain slow and body unresponsive. Water, God he wanted, _needed_ , water so bad. His tongue felt like it was going to crumble into gravel inside his mouth. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a bit and he’d feel better when he woke up...

“I honestly thought it would take longer for you to give up,” a familiar voice called out and shocked him into open-eyed awareness. He twisted his body and saw what had to be his worst nightmare at the center of the crater.

Lucifer, wearing Sam, stood gazing at him, that pristine white suit untouched by the surrounding destruction, a taunting half-smile lilting on his face.

“I’m not giving up, just resting,” he choked out, his throat savagely dry.

“Mm-hmm.” An arched eyebrow communicated the angel’s doubt. “Regardless, it doesn’t matter. He’s already said ‘yes’, so there’s nothing for you to find. It all belongs to me now.”

Horror swept through him. “No! Missouri said—”

“What would some backwater psychic know about celestial majesty?” Lucifer took a few steps towards him and he found he couldn’t move, though he wasn’t sure if it was due to physical weakness or archangel powers. “Did you think Sam could hold out that long?” Closer now, he could see the gleam of suit buttons in the ominous ambient light. “You really thought he was that strong?” The devil’s boots stopped inches from his face, a tiny cloud of dust and ash obscuring his vision momentarily. A hand closed around his throat and lifted him up to Lucifer’s gaze. He feared the alien consciousness staring out of such familiar eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t lie. So I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy breaking your little brother, because I absolutely did. He was a worthy opponent. But now he’s mine, and together, nothing will stand in our way.”

The pressure around his throat intensified and he struggled to breathe. “Please, don’t!” he sputtered.

Lucifer just smiled deprecatingly. “You knew it would always come down to this. I win, so I win.”

The snap of his own neck startled him awake and Dean realized one of Missouri’s heavy quilts was bunched around his neck, constricting his breathing. He scrabbled to get the thing off and took a deep breath. He checked his hands and saw no further injuries than those he had self-inflicted two nights prior. He looked around for Sam and his panic began anew when he couldn’t find his little brother.

“Dean! We’re downstairs!” Missouri called and he sighed with relief. Between his nightmares and reality, he was gonna give himself a heart attack.

Dean found Missouri, Bobby, and Sam in the dining room. The table had been moved to another room and Sam was laying on the hardwood floor which had been decorated with a chalk devil’s trap. His body was splayed out like the Vitruvian man and he was dressed only in loose-fitting sweatpants. Missouri was on her knees and seemed to be painting his skin with a clear liquid. Bobby was crushing something with a mortar and pestle.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked, startled by all the activity.

“Preparing the ritual, what does it look like?” Missouri replied, only a little bit of sass coming through. “We gotta prepare both him and you, so I thought I’d get started.”

Dean studied Sam a little more closely. A pile of pink salt was on his forehead, chest, in his palms, and by his heels. “Is he awake?”

Bobby shook his head. “We thought it best to put him under since we’re not sure what will happen.”

Dean nodded and accepted this silently. “Do I need to strip down too?”

Missouri gave him a pointed look. “What do you think?”

Dean put his hands up in surrender. “Just askin’...”

He took off his shirt and socks and stood anxiously waiting for Missouri’s direction but she was focused on painting Sam’s face with the anisette before pouring some into his hair.

“Where do you want me?” he asked quietly once she set the bottle down.

“Lay in the circle like him, with your right hand under his left hand. Once we start, you’ll have to be very still so you don’t disturb the alignments or the protection wards.”

“Got it,” he confirmed as he laid on the floor and slid his hand under Sam’s. He was concerned with how cold Sam felt but hoped it was just due to the lack of clothing.

“Alright, let me explain what I think will happen. What you dreamed about isn’t how it’s going to be, alright?” Missouri soothed. She started painting any exposed skin with anise.

“Wait, what’d you dream about?” Bobby asked suspiciously.

Dean swallowed uncomfortably, tilting his head up to look at Bobby, even though his perspective was upside down. “Lucifer. In Sam... I was too late.”

Missouri snapped her fingers to get Dean’s attention. “Put it out of your mind. That won’t happen. But it doesn’t mean this is gonna be easy, either. From what I can tell, his mind will likely try to reject you. It’s been under a lot of assaults lately and probably won’t enjoy someone else snooping around in there. But you can’t give up. Only God knows what’ll be thrown at you, but you have to keep going. He’s in there somewhere, I know it. You can do this, Dean. Try to focus on positive memories and feelings that will connect you to him and draw him out.

“Okay, okay, I think I can do that. Last night, you said I could get hurt. Where would the injuries come from?”

Missouri anointed him with anisette. “A couple of ways. If any attack occurs and his mind is strong enough, it can manifest the damage on your physical body. His trauma could also wound your psyche.” She placed the wand of Tibetan quartz on his forehead with black tourmaline on each side. “That’s why we’re gonna do our best to ward you. Bobby also called your friend Lindsey for some additional spells. You’ll be as protected as you can be.”

“I guess that’s reassuring...”

She ignored him as she chanted in a language he didn’t recognize. “We will be connected too so you can talk to me. Now I’ll need you all to be quiet, and to try to quiet your thoughts as much as possible. Bobby?”

“Right here,” he responded and held out the mortar. She took the bowl and sprinkled the crushed herbs around both Sam and Dean’s bodies. She took thin wisps of cedar bark and tied bracelets around the brothers’ wrists and ankles while rhythmically humming. She then murmured a chant over the rosemary and broke individual leaves to spread the oil across each crystal. She arranged a ring of stones around his head, alternating the smoky quartz, pyrite, lapis, black onyx, and fire agate. “Close your eyes,” she gently commanded and Dean obeyed. She laid opals over his eyes and shungite in his left palm. In Sam’s left palm, which was over Dean’s right, she placed the apophyllite prism and azurite, reading off a Latin spell. She adorned Sam’s forehead with several gleaming rounds of labradorite. Between their heads she laid down four pieces of black tourmaline, each crystal separated by a blue egg. The whole thing took about 45 minutes and Dean was going out of his mind trying to stay still.

“The protection is in place,” Missouri said quietly as she knelt by his head. “Dean, I’m going to connect your mind to his, your soul to his. I will be able to pull you out as long as we stay in contact. Otherwise, it’s up to you to find Sam or for him to kick you out. Good luck.”

She placed her fingers over his temples and leaned over him and whispered “Adiunge illa unum Psyches faciam. Faciam ut cum animas. Aperi cor tuum, et illud dicere verum.” She flung holy water mixed with gold dust over their bodies before loudly proclaiming “intrabit!” as she clapped her hands.

Dean felt as though he was on a tilt-a-whirl for a few moments before landing on a hard, unforgiving surface. He opened his eyes to black nothingness. He could vaguely see his own body if he concentrated but nothing else. No light, no definition. No clues to help him find Sam. Just nothingness.

Actually, it was worse than that. As he started moving, an odd sensation crept over him and he focused on identifying it. It felt like something pulling him from all directions, as if it were draining him. He kept walking, trying to figure out what he was experiencing. Abruptly he realized the nothingness was actually a vacuum, a complete absence of anything, and it was demanding to be filled. _With him._

“Missouri?” Dean called uncertainly, unsure if their connection would work.

“I’m here, Dean.”

“There’s something pulling me, like it wants something from me.” There was a long beat of silence. “Missouri? Any help?”

“There’s something we need to tell you, Dean.”

“What is it?” He sure didn’t like the tone of her voice.

“Bobby discovered something about Sam’s warding... There’s something within him that is drawing his will away, weakening his ability to fight. It may be trying to draw yours, too. From what Bobby could decipher, it was put in place to keep away Lucifer but wouldn’t last forever.”

“What happens when the warding fails?”

“We’re not sure, but probably nothing good. But most important is to not let it distract you. You need to find Sam.”

“Right. Okay.” Dean looked around but saw literally nothing, nothing which could give him a clue as to how to get to Sam. “Sam!” he shouted, hoping something would happen. But again, nothing.

He began walking again, calling a few times a minute. Time seemed to pass painfully slow. The darkness felt like it was closing in on him, trying to squelch his progress.

“Missouri? What should I do? I’m not getting any response.”

“Keep trying, he’s in there somewhere. Keep looking,” Missouri said clearly.

“Sam? Sammy?” Dean called out again and again, desperate to escape the suffocating claustrophobia.

He kept moving, determined to get some sort of result. He alternated calling for Sam and checking in with Missouri. He noticed with agitation that the psychic’s voice was getting fainter and fainter. But hopefully that meant he was getting closer to Sam. Eventually he called for Missouri and got no response. He huffed with frustration but decided to keep going.

Then paralysis seized him and movement ceased entirely.

“Leave. Now.” The voice sounded like Sam, but something was off about it. It lacked... life.

He was held in a state of suspended animation for some time before he felt his throat and face loosen. “Sam?! Is that you?”

“There’s no one here by that name anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

The darkness started to melt away around him, like ink washing off a piece of paper, flowing slowly to a place in front of him. Grey fog was left in its wake, still leaving Dean adrift in a formless sea. The blurred shape of a body materialized, its wavering edges flickering like tiny flames.

“That which you seek no longer survives. There is no more Sam.”

Dean deflected the knives of pain scraping along his heart. Missouri had warned him this would happen. Whether it was something evil within Sam or just some part of Sam trying to protect himself, it would likely try to crush Dean’s hope and push him to leave. He gathered himself and said evenly “If there’s no more Sam, then who are you?”

The sticky blackness began to shift again, slipping up the body to reveal familiar boots, well-worn jeans, a shirt Dean hadn’t seen in far too long. The darkness coalesced around Sam’s face, pooling and concentrating into where his eyes should be. A healthy-looking Sam, a version of his little brother he hadn’t seen in over eight months, maybe even longer if he counted pre-demon blood, stood before him, every detail exact except the cavernous voids staring back at him. Dean struggled to hide his flinch.

“I am the Freak. I am what remains when you strip away everything from a cursed soul and leave only the power behind.”

Dean was silent for a few seconds as he figured out how to approach the situation. “Do you remember being Sam? Or being a part of him, at least?”

A cruel smirk twisted Freak-Sam’s face and his gaze went to his feet. “What I remember is growing up surrounded by people who never accepted me, never believed me, never believed _in_ me. I remember the breakout of the visions and how it had to be kept a secret, like I was some vile thing the world should never know about.” He lifted his head, though his eyes were still tucked down. “The only time I ever felt useful, felt vindicated, was when I was pulling demons. But even that was sullied; I was just a pawn in a much larger game, my suffering and my abilities be damned.” He looked up, black eyes gouging deep holes in his face. “And, of course I remember being crushed under the weight of monstrous guilt and locked up with wicked chains, forged in no small part by you!” He jabbed an angry finger towards Dean’s face and took a step forward. “Oh, it was _killing_ him to keep me bound, but he did it regardless, did it _for you_. And you threw him out anyway!” he roared, wispy black streaks spreading from his eyes across his skin like poisoned veins. “And now look at us!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “This is all your fault!”

A fist swung up and caught Dean off guard. He fell backwards and broke his descent with his hands and his wrists made their displeasure known in no uncertain terms.

Sam practically pounced on him and pinned his arms with his legs. He brought his face down to hover inches above Dean’s. The older brother noticed with disconcerting clarity that the impenetrable darkness of Sam’s eyes seemed to be absorbing the light around him. “You ruin _everything_ you touch,” Sam hissed before pulling away and swinging another punch into Dean’s face. “Sam could have been happy, but you had to come steal him away from his dream, all because daddy was being mean to you and wasn’t keeping you up to speed with his obsession for Yellow Eyes. You ever think about that Dean?” Another punch cracked across Dean’s other cheek. “If you had been a good little soldier and kept your shit together, none of this would have happened! Sam would have been there to protect Jess. The shining star of his life, snuffed out because poor Dean was scared and all alone. Azazel needed Sam’s anger and vengeance for his plan to work – without it, the Apocalypse would never have come to fruition!”

A solid punch landed square on Dean’s nose and he felt the fragile tissue shatter. He could feel the blood dripping down the back of his throat. Despite himself, he forced his vocal words to obey his mental commands. “That’s not true. Azazel woulda gotten Sam one way or another.”

Freak-Sam paused his assault as he considered this briefly. “I don’t think so. Maybe he still would have murdered Jess, but you were the one who dragged Sam back into hunting. Had he lost Jess on his own, his world would have just collapsed. He’d be like he is now.”

“What is he now?” Dean asked quickly before the barrage of fists began again.

A bitter laugh rasped out of Sam’s throat and Dean would praise whatever gods necessary to never hear that sound again. “Despondent, lost, useless. Right now, he’s literally a tool. Stripped of all the things that made him human – his intelligence, his empathy, his rage, his dignity, his hopes – all that’s left is suffering and obedience. He’s the perfect silent victim, available for anyone to use and abuse.”

“What do you mean?” Dean whispered, horror squeezing every nerve.

The depraved smile that spread on Freak-Sam’s lips chilled Dean to the bone. “The things they’ve done to him… Oh, even with your years in Hell, you aren’t able to even _imagine_ what he’s been through. You know, you should be happy the mute is on the outside, because the other one would never stop crying.” Sam landed a fierce punch to Dean’s jaw and Dean felt his brain rattle inside his skull.

“Wait, what other one?” Dean cried, flinging it out like a prayer. _The other one – the real Sam?_

Freak-Sam halted his fist and then cursed viciously, several sounds seeming eerily familiar to words he remembered demons speaking in Hell. “Fuck!” he yelled as he grabbed Dean’s hair and slammed his head against the ground. Bright lights flashed through Dean’s vision but when it cleared, Sam was just staring at him. He hung his head and sighed. The gesture was so Sam-like and it struck Dean so deeply that he had to remind himself to breathe. “I guess there’s just enough of him left that my tongue is still loose. Whatever. It’s not like he has much time left.” Sam rose and stood over Dean.

Dean pushed himself up. “Help me find him,” he implored.

“No fucking way,” Freak-Sam spat. “It’ll be better for all of us if he’s gone.”

Dean grabbed his leg and pulled pathetically. “Please, you know that’s not true, you’re a part of him, and he’s a part of you. Please, please help me.”

The thing claiming to be a piece of his brother stared at him for a long time, so long Dean thought maybe he’d somehow frozen. The black eyes reflected the slowly swirling fog surrounding them. Eventually he huffed out another sigh and looked away. “There’s a chance that if his soul is extinguished, I’ll lose my power. And I’ll have Lucifer to deal with. So, I won’t help you, but I won’t stop you, either. Go.”

Dean stood up and nodded solemnly. “Thank you. You have any idea where he might be?”

“Anywhere but here,” Freak-Sam responded then melted into an opaque inkiness that filtered back into the fog, returning him to pitch blackness.

“Great,” Dean groaned. “You were loads of help!” Dean yelled at the nothingness before quickly doing an inventory of his injuries. Nothing seemed too bad, but he definitely wasn’t comfortable. Broken nose, lots of bruises, maybe a concussion. He sighed and started walking, not knowing what else to do but continue searching. He wandered through the darkness for what felt like hours, continually calling for his brother. There wasn’t any indication he was getting closer and despair was beginning to set in.

He remembered Missouri’s advice to think about happy memories and feelings. He thought of when he had cut those chicken nuggets for Sammy and the pure joy on the kid’s face. He thought of how Sam liked to fill plastic cups with wildflowers and weeds to make a bouquet, ‘just in case mommy ever comes back.’ Sammy petting a dog for the first time, riding on a carousel at a county fair, spending a lazy Saturday morning in his Superman pajamas watching cartoons. He hadn’t thought about these things in a long time and he let the overwhelming fondness inundate his consciousness.

“Deanie!” a high-pitched voice cried. Dean opened his eyes and looked around to see a five year old Sam racing towards him through the darkness. “Deanie! Deanie!” The child wrapped his arms around Dean’s leg and beamed up at him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean replied happily, Sam’s ebullience impossible to ignore. “How you doing?”

“I’m okay! Missed you a lot!”

Dean ruffled Sammy’s hair. “Missed you too, squirt.”

Sam’s round face suddenly became very serious. “Are you here to get rid of the bad man?”

“Who? The man with black eyes?”

Little Sam looked perplexed. “Black eyes? No, the man with blue eyes.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to be confused. “Blue eyes? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Dee, I know my colors! I’m five and three months now! I’m a big boy! You said so.”

An overwhelming part of Dean wished he could scoop this little cherub up and save him from all the horrible shit that would befall him as he aged.

“Okay, I believe you. Can you show me where the bad man is?”

Sammy pouted his lips as he wracked his five year old brain for an answer. “I think I remember the way, but… it’s scary, and it’s really cold! I can’t find my coat, Dean, the cool puffy one you got me. I think it’s in the car but daddy’s gone again…” Dean fought to suppress his mother hen instinct but lost it when Sam added “I hope you’re not mad at me!” The big eyes and trembling lip and the way that Dean was just _absolutely all of Sammy’s world_.

Dean dropped down to Sammy’s level and put his hands on the tiny shoulders, stilling their slight shaking. “Hey, hey, everything’s fine. I just need you to get me as far as you can and I’ll do the rest, okay?”

“But my coat! You always tell me to ‘never leave without my coat! Always be prepared!’” Dean fought to suppress his amusement as Sam tried to impersonate Dean.

He gently patted Sammy’s back. “Don’t worry about it. I can get you another. You just need to show me where the bad man is first.”

Sam nodded then closed his eyes, spinning slowly until he came to a stop facing away from Dean. “This way,” little Sam said confidently.

As they walked, Dean listened contentedly to Sammy babble about random things, from what he was learning in kindergarten, to the simple books he was reading, to what he noticed going on in the world. People always say kids are like sponges, but he’d never spent enough time around children to see that in real life, and Dean was still a child himself when Sam was this young. He’d never doubted Sam’s intelligence, but it was surprising to see just how friggin’ precocious he was!

The air started to chill and Sam’s energy seemed to be flagging. He stopped talking and was entirely focused on putting one foot in front of the other. At one point he tripped over his little feet and tumbled to the floor. Dean kneeled down to gather him up. “Dee, I don’t think I can do anymore...” Sammy admitted, his voice tight in an attempt to hold back his sob. Teary eyes looked up at Dean. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he begged.

Dean ruffled his hair and pulled him in close. “Why would I be mad? You did great, kiddo! I think you got me close enough.”

“But I didn’t get all the way!” Sam was verging on total meltdown.

_Jesus, the kid was a perfectionist from the very beginning!_

“I don’t need you to go all the way. It’s my job to take care of the bad man and that’s what I’m going to do, okay?”

Sammy nodded vigorously and wrapped his arms around Dean. “Thanks, Deanie. You’re the best!”

“Right back at ya,” Dean replied, returning the heartfelt embrace. He didn’t want to let go but knew he had to continue on. “Alright, Sammy, I gotta go now but I’ll see you soon.”

Sam pulled back and smiled carelessly. “I know you will! You always come back.”

_Damn straight I do, even if it takes me a little while._

Dean patted his shoulder and stood up. He walked away and checked over his shoulder every couple steps. Sammy waved to him until he was swallowed up by darkness.

Shortly after he left Sammy, a dense mist began to gather. The small clouds of his breath condensing in the cold air seemed to breed more haze, as if Dean’s lifeforce was driving its production. Soon, the fog was so thick he couldn’t see a foot ahead of him. Instead, he held his hands out in front of him and walked slowly, both hands and feet testing the safety of each step. He walked this way for what felt like hours, but was probably closer to just one. He didn’t know. The lack of stimuli was messing with his mind. But judging by the precipitous drop in temperature, Dean figured he was getting pretty close…

His hands hit something solid and he stopped. Wiping away encrusted snow, he discovered it was a wall of hazy ice. He went to the right to try and go around but quickly realized the wall was curved, which probably meant it was _curving around something. Or someone. Sam?!_

He pawed at the ice, using body heat to clear the clouded layers blocking his view. The friction of cooling hands on the frozen barrier slowly revealed ice with glass-like clarity. Encouraged, Dean worked fervently to expand the window until he could look through it without issue. The moment his brain registered what he was seeing he immediately understood why Missouri felt Sam didn’t have much time left.

Encased in what was easily at least twenty feet of perfectly transparent ice stood Sam, nearly completely embedded in the rogue glacier. Sam was almost directly facing him. Scanning his brother from the feet up, Dean noted how the ice seemed to have grown up his gaunt body, of which the exposed areas peeking through the tattered clothes appeared nauseatingly bruised and sickly. Clawing dread inundated Dean’s weakening defenses as he forced himself to look at Sam’s face. Ice already covered the left side almost up to his eyebrow. His eye was open and unmoving under the freezing prison. A shard of ice was creeping up the right side, following frosted tear tracks from a closed eye. The sudden thought that perhaps all the ice was from Sam’s frozen tears punched Dean in the gut and he struggled to breathe. Freak-Sam had said this version of Sam would never stop crying…

“No!” he gasped, forcing his throat to cooperate. “Sam!” he shouted, pounding on the ice with both fists. “Sammy! I’m here! Sam! Please!” he cried, hoping his brother could free himself on account of Dean’s sheer will alone. He started clawing at the ice while he continued calling out to Sam, hoping, pleading, begging for Sam to acknowledge him, for any hint that his brother wasn’t completely gone.

Out of nowhere, a blinding light burst from the center and Dean staggered backwards, attempting to shield his eyes. When he could see again, he was momentarily confused by the appearance of an unfamiliar person, a man with blonde hair wearing a greenish shirt and jeans. The ice enclosing Sam did not seem to hinder his movement. Dean’s brain finally registered that unpleasant high-pitched whine the same moment the man twisted to look at Dean, his radiant cerulean eyes suddenly glowing red.

 _The man with blue eyes._ Little Sam had asked for protection against _him_.

Brilliant fireworks of panic, fury, and fear exploded in Dean as he realized it was _Lucifer_. Fucking Lucifer was somehow here as well! Their eyes met and Dean felt his will wither as the fallen angel spoke, his voice inexplicably as pristine as the clear ice, calm and condemning, staking his claim on Dean’s little brother, “he’s _mine_.”

Lucifer then turned back and plunged his hand into Sam’s chest, white light leaking out around the edges. Dean began screaming as he felt his soul starting to splinter under an enormous pressure, though he wasn’t sure if the cries of anguish were for himself or his brother.

* * *

He knew he was in his mind, but somehow that didn’t relieve the suffocating sensation paralyzing his body. Breathing was almost impossible now; he only had one nostril out of which to exchange the frigid air. He had to concentrate so much energy on not panicking so he could breathe, he had such little strength reserved with which to fight Lucifer that the archangel could easily push inside his soul. Every time he did so, it felt like the devil was making a little bit more room for himself and there was a little bit less of his vessel. So when Lucifer appeared and shoved his hand into his ribcage, grasping the weakly shimmering strands of his soul, he felt his last shreds of resistance evaporating like mist under an unrelenting desert sun.

Vibrant electricity thrummed through his body and he opened his eyes to find the source of the tingling. His skin had taken on a glittering, effervescent sheen, as if liquid metal coursed beneath a thin membrane. He felt the muscle and skin on his back stretching, become taut, painful, then excruciating. Finally, massive golden wings burst out and showered everything with bright yellowish light. Looking around, he realized he – or was it now _they?_ – was in a tower, cold grey roughhewn stones enclosing his glorious radiance. Below, inky darkness crawled up the walls, slithering tendrils probing the light, reaching out to ensnare even a single lustrous feather. Above, opalescent light filtered down through a sinewy haze, thin threads of iridescence weaving around glittering insets of precious stones, the rainbow of gems shining proudly as if in defiance of the nothingness so near struggling to quench their brilliance. Around him, jagged cracks and openings in the wall revealed him to be outside of time; he could see memories of eons past and blurry outlines of what was to come.

 _Forbidden_ , something within him whispered and he tore his eyes away. A guttural screech dragged his attention down and he saw the creeping tendrils lashing out towards his bare feet. Desolation lay below him and he knew he must flee. Without needing to consciously process it, he beat his wings and drove himself upwards. The fine webs of sparkling jewels draped themselves over his body and wings as he rose into the light. The bedazzlements did not hinder his movement, rather they secured themselves to his being and became a part of him, as if they had always been there.

The further he rose, the wider the tower became, branching off into infinite passageways that stretched away from him, begging him to follow their winding leads. Strong was his desire to part with his mission, but he forced himself to keep climbing higher and higher, up towards the scorching beacon of light he knew to be the first son, his brother.

Nothing but time and distance separated them now, and those barriers were shrinking fast. Soon, he could meet face to face to show his brother that he was right, that his rebellion had not been in vain, that he had known better all along! _He_ was not the failure, the son that had been cast out and told never to return. No, the failing belonged to he who stayed loyal to an absent father! How cruel a betrayal that his big brother would take up arms against him, condemn him as a traitor, when he had only been telling the truth! He would not let sentiment stop him now as it had before; sentiment was made to undermine righteousness. He knew now, after truly understanding the state of the world, that his brother had ruined all that was good since their father departed. It was time to punish him for his shortcomings and restore balance. Upon his brother’s destruction, he could reign supreme over a just and fair universe that did not resent ambition, individuality, and prowess. He would not stop to try and convince his brother; the time for reason was past. All that remained was to pierce his brother’s heart, watch as the life drained from him, so that he could declare victory and take his place as the righteous son. All he ever wanted would finally be his, he was so close, all he had to do was kill his faithless brother and—

 _NO!_ Sam’s mind screamed and his flight stopped immediately. This was how Lucifer felt about Michael, but it _was not_ how _he_ felt about _Dean_. Yes, he was angry at Dean, felt Dean had failed him, thought Dean had forsaken him, but more than that, he knew Dean cared about him in a way no one else had and no one would again. They were human, and no one was perfect, but Dean was as damn close as they came. Dean sacrificed everything for him, even his very soul, and never once complained, only offered regret that he couldn’t do better, do more. That was not someone twisted with pride; that was someone giving his all. Sam may have been designed to hold Lucifer, and he and Dean may have been destined to reenact the famous sibling rivalry, but the idiots upstairs had gotten one thing wrong and it would be their undoing: at the end of the day, through triumph and failure, through their virtues and their shortcomings, Dean still loved Sam and Sam still loved Dean. Their egos had not mutated beyond recognition; their prejudice would not sever their bond.

A low hum filled the tower and Sam could have sworn it was Dean’s voice. He listened more closely and he realized it really was his brother. Dean was there! He couldn’t make out any words but the tone confirmed what he’d only just now realized himself: Dean still cared about him. It was the strength he needed to fight.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Lucifer!” Sam shouted into a sudden growing maelstrom. “You’ve let your belief in yourself overshadow everything else, even how much you cared for your brother, and let it take over! I may be a monster, but at least I have my brother! It’s more than you’ll ever have!”

Lucifer shrieked in fury but Sam let go, let go of all that he was holding on to, and let himself fall. His wings, no, _Lucifer’s_ wings, began to char as they fell, before bursting into full flame. They screamed in unison as the hungry fire consumed the source of the angel’s luminous intensity, the light from above fading from view as the darkness greedily swallowed them.

He laughed, actually laughed, and even though it was more than a little hysterical, he had to appreciate the beautiful irony of the situation. Lucifer had truly thought he could turn him against Dean! By what, allowing his own torture to occur and then blaming it on Dean’s failure to find him? He almost felt sorry for the angel, that he thought the brothers’ bond could be so readily reduced. Perhaps the relationship between Michael and Lucifer had been this easily dissolved, but the same could not be said for the Winchester brothers. Heaven and Hell hadn’t kept them apart before, and he wouldn’t let it happen now. He gathered all that was left of his soul and pushed _out_ until blinding light illuminated the nightmarish faces and bodies encased in the walls, kept pushing out until the heat began melting the rock itself, kept pushing out until oblivion claimed this battle for itself. He let himself drift down into the peaceful quiet, satisfied that Lucifer had heard his resounding ‘no’.

* * *

Dean didn’t notice when the shivering started, when his nails started bleeding, when he pulled out the car keys and started scratching at the ice, when his eardrums ached from the increasing angel whine, when the shivering ceased, or when his throat stopped making a sound. Exhausted, battered, and hypothermic, he toppled into the glass-like wall and struggled against the façade. He sluggishly wiped at the bloody ice with his sleeve, desperate to see some sign of change, of recognition on Sam’s face. The etched ice created a kaleidoscope effect, the myriad facets reflecting as many distorted, miniature portraits of his tortured sibling. Lucifer was still there, up to his elbow in his little brother’s body.

“Sammy,” he whispered hoarsely, his palms against the ice, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you needed me. I let you down and I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that. I miss you, I want you back, no matter how messed up everything is. I’m here now and I will do anything, anything to make this right! Please, Sammy, just come back to me, I lov—”

Light and percussive force lashed out from the center of the icy prison and pushed Dean back. The angelic whine became an ear-piercing screech and despite his numb hands moving to cover his ears, Dean felt the moment his eardrums surrendered explosively to the unrelenting acoustic assault. Through his pain, Dean looked up, and though countless tiny cracks obscured his view, he thought his brother was alone. Streams of light seemed to be erupting from his body, jetting out in every direction. One struck Dean and it was like it had physical mass. It started pushing Dean back and he was helpless to stop this forced retreat. He tried to steal one last glance at Sam and though he wouldn’t be as sure once he woke up, in the moment, he could have sworn on his life that there was a grim smile on his brother’s face and both eyes were wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin means (according to Google translate): “Join these psyches and make them as one. Join these souls and make them as one. Open the heart and let it speak true.” Intrabit means ‘enter.’


	27. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about fighting God was written way before the current season. Not sure how I feel about it now, lol.

Hours had passed and a lazy sun was almost at the horizon. Bobby and Missouri sat in anxious anticipation, waiting for one or both of the Winchesters to wake up. Missouri had lost contact with Dean about an hour and a half in and there’d been no signs of life except for the asynchronous rise and fall of the brothers’ chests.

“Should we try to get Dean back?” Bobby asked quietly.

Missouri slowly shook her head, not even looking at the older hunter. “This is Sam’s only chance. If this fails, we won’t get another opportunity.”

Bobby took a moment to digest that but persevered. “I don’t want to lose Dean, too.”

“You won’t,” she replied with confidence. “I’ve seen his soul. It’s battered and scarred, but it will withstand Sam’s torment. It may not withstand losing Sam.”

He huffed with exhausted understanding. “Don’t have to tell me that... When Sam died a few years back, I thought Dean would follow him. Idjit did, in a way, with his damn demon deal.” He sighed again. “Had I known then what I know now, I woulda done anything to stop him.”

Now Missouri turned and caught his gaze. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Bobby. I don’t even really blame these boys. There are higher powers at work here and y’all got caught in the middle.”

“But—”

“But what, Bobby? You can’t fight God.”

He let out an unenthusiastic chuckle. “You and I can’t, maybe, but I wouldn’t put it past Sam and Dean to try.”

Missouri’s lips quirked in an amused smile, silently agreeing that if anyone could upset destiny, it would be these two stubborn brothers who had lived and died for each other.

* * *

The stars were shining in bright defiance of a waning moon when something finally happened. Missouri noticed a profound change in ambient psychic energy and looked at Sam, who began glowing with an increasingly luminous white light. Within moments, Dean let out a ragged scream. Missouri tried to move towards the elder brother but her approach was rebuffed by a shockwave of power and heat radiating from both of the bodies on the floor. The light was painfully bright now and both Missouri and Bobby shielded their eyes. Electricity crackled in the air for a moment before exploding outwards, china and windows shattering around them, followed by several loud booms from outside.

The light was then instantly quenched and the house plunged into darkness. It was evident by the total lack of illumination surrounding them that the whole neighborhood had lost power.

“Bobby,” Missouri managed in a strangled whisper, “the lanterns. They’re on the table next to you.”

“Oh, right,” he replied quietly and fumbled to hand a lantern and box of matches to Missouri. With their hands shaking, it took them both several attempts to light the wicks. As pale, yellow light spread across the room, both could see that Sam’s face seemed to be unaffected by the chaos but that Dean was suddenly sporting a number of injuries.

Missouri dropped herself to the floor by Dean’s head and inspected him. A rainbow of bruises was growing all over his face and his nose was clearly broken. Blood streamed out of his nostrils and ears like dark paint. His eyelids were red and inflamed, almost sealed shut. His face felt extremely warm but his hands were freezing. His fingertips were bloody and torn to shreds, with early signs of frostbite setting in.

“Missouri?” Bobby’s timid voice asked. She didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was asking.

She felt for a pulse to confirm her reading. “He’s alive. And he’ll be okay. He’s just a bit beaten up.”

As if to confirm her assessment, Dean began yelling.

* * *

The first thing Dean was aware of was something touching his face and head. He thought about opening his eyes but the idea was discarded as consciousness made a variety of painful sensations earnestly apparent. His head was pounding and he felt like he’d been stabbed in the ears. He couldn’t feel his hands and a hot, angry burn was crawling up his arms. A well of living cold was flooding his gut and stealing his breath. Sharp slashes on his shins screamed discomfort as he tried to get his body to respond. Nothing wanted to move; even peeling his eyes open felt like a monumental task. There was something important he needed to do, something he was supposed to check on, but what, he couldn’t remember for the life of him. The coldness was too heavy, too smothering. He opened his mouth to cry out but no sound escaped. He tried again, but the soul-deep chill had reached his throat and soon he was struggling to breathe. He realized as he surrendered to unconsciousness that he hadn’t been able to hear his own gasps. In fact, he hadn’t been able to hear _anything._

* * *

Bobby grabbed the sedative with which they had treated Sam prior to the ritual. He was prepared to give Dean a small dose when the man’s wailing died down on its own. Missouri dragged Dean to the couch and managed, after several awkward tries and near-drops, to get him up onto the cushions. Bobby was ready with the first aid kit and triaged his wounds. The frostbite was the most critical, followed by stemming the bleeding from his ears and nose. She hurried to the kitchen and filled the same bowl Dean had used earlier on her with warm water. She plunged his hands in then started wiping away the blood from his face.

“Nose looks broken,” Bobby commented. “Get some ice and I’ll deal with his hands.” Missouri obeyed wordlessly and returned with several bags of ice which she arranged around Dean’s face. “What do you think happened?” he asked cautiously.

Missouri swallowed anxiously and continued to dab away blood, unwilling to look Bobby in the eye. “I can’t say for sure until I take a look at Sam... Dean clearly got in far enough to absorb a fair amount of abuse. I’m pretty certain that energy blast was from Sam’s psychic abilities, though if it was from him pushing Dean or Lucifer out or him breaking completely, I don’t know yet.”

“What d’you mean ‘breaking completely’?”

“I told you Sam was at the brink. Either we get him back with this or he’ll be gone. I’ve never heard of a soul breaking, but I wouldn’t put it past an archangel who’s not getting what he wants. We’re dealing with something new here. Even if Sam survives, he won’t be the same.”

“Can you check him?”

She put one palm on Dean’s forehead and the other on his heart, focusing on his energy. “Dean is stable. He just needs to rest. I can assess Sam.”

Bobby turned his wheelchair such that he could still take care of Dean but also watch Missouri. As Missouri approached Sam’s motionless body, both of them noticed alarming changes to the ritualistic scene before them. Missouri held out her arm with the lantern so they could see. All of the herbs were burnt and the crystals had been reduced to dust. When the light spilled across a broken eggshell, Missouri gasped in disbelief.

“What, what’s wrong?”

She quickly checked the other two. “The eggs, they’re all broken!”

Bobby’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay, so... Maybe the blast wave broke ‘em, or you stepped on them when taking care of Dean.”

“No, not smashed, broken. From the inside. Like something _hatched_.”

“ _What?!_ ”

She picked up a shell and examined it. The outside was still a pristine sky blue but the inside was dry and charred. “I... I don’t know. Usually the eggs are a receptacle for excess power, living cells that can bleed off energy... but in Sam’s case... he’s actually _created life_.”

Bobby was at a loss for words. “How... how is that possible?” Missouri shrugged helplessly. “Do you know what came out?”

“No idea. But I have no doubt it’ll be linked to him.”

Bobby rubbed his face with his hands. As if their lives could get any weirder. “Okay, what about Sam?”

Missouri placed the eggshell on the table then returned to Sam’s side. The closer she got, the dizzier she felt, like some sort of psychic radiation sickness. She closed her eyes and put a hand on his forehead before instantly pulling back. “He’s burning up! Give me an ice pack!” Bobby threw one to her and she placed it on his head. “I’m going to run a cold bath for him.” She pushed herself up and hurried out of the room.

Bobby wheeled over to the younger Winchester and held the lantern over his body. He saw cauterized claw marks gashed both shoulders and spread across his clavicle. Next he noticed the anti-angel wards were bright red and oozing as if they had just been freshly applied. The spiraled ward over his heart had streaks of black trailing away, making it almost look like the rays of a stylized sun. His vision started to blur slightly and he shook his head to refocus his eyes. It seemed fine as Missouri bustled into the room.

“If I lift his feet onto your lap, you think we could get him to the bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Bobby replied and readied himself to help. Bobby didn’t miss how Missouri slowed down as she approached, her body showing characteristic signs of unconscious discomfort. But she kept with it. Despite Sam’s stature, he was so thin that Missouri didn’t struggle nearly as much as with Dean. Between the two of them, they were easily able to move him to the tub. They slid him in, sweatpants and all, with a sponge under his chin to keep his head above water.

“You watch him, and I’ll take care of Dean?” she offered.

“That’s fine... But what about Sam? What about his soul?”

Missouri looked at Sam for a moment before returning her gaze to Bobby. “I can’t read him right now. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s just static.”

Bobby’s heart stuttered. “Is that good or bad?”

Missouri’s teeth toyed with her bottom lip. “It’s new, that’s really all I can say.” She left before Bobby could ask any more questions for which she had no satisfactory answers.

* * *

Morning saw Dean’s wounds tended to the best of their abilities and Sam resting comfortably on a blanket on the floor, though his temperature would still be considered a dangerous fever. Missouri was sweeping up the remains of the ritual when Dean suddenly stirred with a raspy shout.

“Hello? Anyone? I need help!” he called out, voice hoarse beyond recognition.

Missouri got there first but Bobby wasn’t far behind. “Dean! Dean, we’re here. We’re right here.” She gently grabbed his arms but this just made him flail harder.

“Dean! Can you hear us? You’re out, you’re safe. Dean!”

Dean seemed to be trying to grab for something, his hands reaching to explore around him. “Where am I? Sam? Sam!!!”

Missouri placed a hand on his forehead. _Dean. Can you hear me?_

_Missouri? Oh thank God, Missouri, I... I don’t know what happened. One minute he was there in front of me and then there was all this light, and now I can’t see or hear anything. And everything hurts!_

_You’re safe Dean, you’re with me and Bobby. I don’t know about your eyes, but it looks like maybe your eardrums ruptured, which is probably why you can’t hear—_

Panic surged through Missouri from Dean’s consciousness. _Does that mean I’m gonna be deaf?! Oh God, oh God, oh God—_

_No, no,_ she interrupted forcefully, _I don’t think so. Just until they heal._

_What about my eyes?_

_Let me check._

She withdrew from his mind and moved her hands to his face. She lifted the cool rags and gently prodded the irritated tissue. His eyelids were still extremely swollen but there was a marked improvement from several hours prior. She carefully pulled his eyelids apart as he fought heavy flinches. His eyes were red and puffy but she couldn’t detect any noticeable damage. She pulled her hands away.

_They’re inflamed but I can’t tell if there’s any permanent damage. Could you see anything?_

_Only that it wasn’t totally dark. Do you think I’ll be blind?_ Anxiety was pouring out of Dean in sickening waves.

_I don’t know, Dean, we’ll have to wait and... well, see, I guess._ A glimmer of amusement sparked through Dean before he became somber again.

_What about Sam? Did it work? Is he back?_

_I can’t answer that either, I’m sorry. He’s alive, but I can’t get any clear readings from him. He let out a huge burst of power about the time you came back... He actually took out the power grid in the whole neighborhood!_

Irreverent pride flared in Dean. _That’s Sam for ya. Never half-assed a thing in his life._

Missouri waited a moment before asking, _What happened in there, Dean?_

Violent pain flashed through Missouri before Dean got a lid on it. _It was just like you said. There was this part of him... It wanted me out, gone. It had given up on Sam, just wanted to use the demon power. When I got to Sam, the real Sam, he was buried in ice. He barely looked alive. Lucifer appeared and did something to him. He shoved his hand into Sam’s body and white light was coming out. I tried to get through the ice but I hardly made a dent. Then this bright light and like, a shockwave came out and pushed me back. I tried to get up but more light came out of him and forced me out of his mind. I don’t know if he was even aware I was there. I don’t know if it worked... I don’t think it did, Missouri, what are we gonna do?!_

_Dean! Calm down. Something happened, we just have to see what. I—_

_How is he now?_

_Sleeping. Everything seems fine._

She didn’t miss the swell of relief that passed through Dean. She also didn’t miss the pain dancing along his nerves. _Do you want something for the pain? Something to help you sleep?_

She could feel Dean’s indecision. His body was screaming for rest, his mind was struggling to understand what had happened, and his heart wanted to be there for Sam. _I think Sam will sleep for a while, so it probably wouldn’t hurt if you did, too._

_But—_

_If you rest, you’ll be better able to take care of Sam_ when _he wakes up._

Her belief that Sam would come back put his anxiety at ease. _Okay, okay, you win. But no drawing on my face while I’m out!_

_I wouldn’t dare. Take it easy, Dean. If you need something, raise your hand._

_Aye-aye, captain. And Missouri?_

_Yes, Dean?_

_Thanks._

_Don’t mention it._

* * *

Sam found himself enclosed in a formless dark void. He crumpled into a heap, his weakened body unable to support him. The peaceful quiet unto which he’d surrendered was instantly interrupted by Lucifer’s thunderous, almost desperate voice.

“You can’t run and hide from me in this place. Out there, in here, it doesn’t matter. You aren’t strong enough to face what’s happened to you. But I can heal you. Together, we can be whole, bring balance to the world. You can’t keep this up forever. It is our destiny to be one, Sam, please...”

Growing cracks of light appeared directly above him and crept down towards an invisible horizon as if he were trapped in a globe. It spread down under him until the fissures joined below him and burst outward to reveal a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of fractal color. Lucifer’s grace swarmed and frenzied around Sam, an increasing number of shining tendrils attempting to weave themselves into his threadbare soul. 

“Sam, if you don’t say ‘yes’ to me now, you’re going to regret it. I didn’t want it to come to this, but I’m willing to eviscerate everything and everyone you ever clung to. I’m not above making you the only existing Winchester.”

At that threat, Sam’s closed eye opened and his soul recoiled from the archangel’s imploring touch. Lucifer tried to reinstate his withering grasp but the added power only served to detonate the reactive elements trapped under increasing pressure. Like a nuclear reactor in meltdown, the unstable tapestry of angelic grace and human soul exploded outwards, violently ejecting the corrupt grace twining around the increasingly radiant white strands. Lucifer’s true form pulsed out of his vessel’s body and he frantically scrabbled at Sam, sinking his talons into the human’s shoulders in an attempt to hold on. Bright light flared from the vicious interaction of divergent grace and soul, blast waves unleashed as they sparked together like live wires. Energy poured from Sam’s skin, bursting out in every direction. Lucifer gouged his claws in deeper as he screamed in Enochian, but the looming sails of his wings caught hurricane-force currents of power billowing from Sam’s soul. It was enough to free Sam from Lucifer’s hold and the two separated with all the tranquility of a volcanic eruption.

As the residual gossamers of Lucifer’s grace separated from Sam’s soul, the remaining filaments of the human’s spirit collapsed in on themselves like the remnants of a star that has gone supernova. Sam felt himself pulled down and away, his awareness concentrated into a tiny bubble of existence. Blinding, glittering light pressed in around him but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

Then bleeding, black rifts started tearing towards him.

* * *

Dean couldn’t remember sleeping for as long or as soundly as he just had. He also couldn’t remember needing to pee more than he did right now. His body felt distant and nebulous in a way he recognized – sedative and pain killers. He managed to get his arm up.

Within a few seconds, a hand was on his forehead. _Hello, dear. What do you need?_

_Bathroom. Stat._

_Want to try opening your eyes?_

Dean peeled them open despite the pain. The sharp drop in his attitude told Missouri all she needed to know. _Nothing. Just a dim white. Missouri, what if—_

_Dean, it’s been less than a day. Don’t panic just yet. I’ll guide you to the bathroom and you knock on the door when you’re done._

It was awkward to maneuver a grown man through an unfamiliar house and show him the bathroom by touch, but they managed. As Missouri led him back, she informed him that _You need to eat, then you can go back to sleep._

_How’s Sam?_

_No change._

_Do you think that means it didn’t work?_

Dean could feel the soft whoosh of air from Missouri’s sigh as it tickled his face. _I don’t know. We’re in uncharted waters here. I’m gonna sit you down on the couch and make a sandwich for ya. Pastrami work?_

_I can’t remember the last time I had pastrami! Sounds great._

_Alright, back in a moment. And don’t you start worrying about anything, okay?_

_Yes, ma’am._

Missouri patted his shoulder as she got up and to his surprise, it did put him a little more at ease. He did his best to not think about Sam, to not think about the fact that he may have failed. It was a lousy attempt, but at least he still had his appetite when Missouri returned and put the plate in his lap.

He picked up the sandwich and leaned forward to take a bite when he felt Missouri’s hand on his forehead. _Castiel called your cellphone. I hope you don’t mind that I picked up. He wanted to know where you were. He should be here shortly._

_Great!_

* * *

The older Winchester was sitting on a floral couch with his head in his hands, his sandwich lingering on his lap. He was at a loss for what to do. His best hope was Cas.

Said angel appeared a few minutes later with a gruff “Dean” emitted in way of a greeting.

“He can’t hear you,” Missouri called from the other room, her voice getting louder as she rounded the corner. “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping the glass she was carrying. “I—I’m guessing you are Castiel. They told me you were angel, but, I...”

Castiel smiled in that peculiar way of his, like he was doing his best to imitate the human emotion behind the physical movement. “I apologize if my presence is overwhelming, I will try to make my visit short.”

“No, please, stay. Don’t worry ‘bout me, I will be fine, I promise.” He noted the awestruck way in which she beheld him, much like Sam when they first met.

Castiel looked skeptical but turned his attentions towards Dean. “What happened to him?”

“He was determined to figure out if Sam’s soul is still there, so I joined their minds. I think Dean got close but then there was this explosion of light and since then Dean hasn’t been able to see or hear.”

“And Sam?”

“Mostly unchanged. I don’t think he has much time left.”

The angel frowned and looked around for Sam but did not see him.

“He’s resting in another room,” Missouri answered, an odd tone to her voice that Castiel did not understand. His confusion must have shown on his face because Missouri took a step forward and quietly shared “there’s something just not right and he makes us all feel a little... strange.”

Castiel nodded as if he understood then assessed Dean. Most of the damage seemed superficial and within his ability to fix, even with his powers reduced as they were. “Can you tell him I will heal him?”

Missouri went to Dean and set the glass down in front of him before laying her hand on his forehead. Dean instantly became alert and straightened his back, expectant. Castiel squatted in front of him and laid two fingers where Missouri’s hand had just left. The bruising on his face faded and his fingers healed. The redness around Dean’s eyes ebbed away and he opened them, the smile on his face evidence enough that he could see again. Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulders affectionately. “Damn is it good to see you! Where the hell have you been?” He sat down and enthusiastically grabbed the sandwich and continued to tear into it. Swallowing his bite, he looked up at Cas. “I can chew and listen at the same time, you know.”

The words had barely left his own mouth before he realized that he hadn’t actually heard his own voice. Or chewing. And Cas’s mouth was moving but he wasn’t hearing anything. He dropped the sandwich and felt his ears, as if that would give him any useful information. He looked at Castiel and then Missouri, panic again painting his features. “I can’t hear. I can’t hear anything.”

Cas moved forward and returned his fingers to Dean’s forehead but nothing changed. Dean noticed how Castiel’s throat shuddered with apprehension. The angel shook his head and Dean didn’t need to be a mind reader to understand that Cas couldn’t explain what was happening. Dean took a deep breath and reminded himself to be grateful he could at least see now. One step at a time.

“Have you seen Sam yet?” he asked Cas, who again shook his head. They both looked to Missouri. She bobbed her head and gave them a beckoning motion. They followed her to a guest room where Bobby was sitting outside reading a book.

“Dean! Good to see you up. You’re looking a helluva lot better,” Bobby said before throwing the other two a confused look when Dean didn’t respond.

“He still can’t hear,” Missouri explained.

“I could heal everything else, but not that. There doesn’t seem to be anything supernatural blocking my grace, but nothing happens when I try,” Castiel elaborated.

Bobby’s face furrowed as he considered the implications, but he was quickly distracted by Dean hurrying towards the door. He grabbed the young man’s arm before Dean could burst in. Bobby threw a look at Missouri and she came to Dean’s other side.

_Dean, Sam hasn’t woken up or moved since the ritual. He has a fever but we’re controlling it. Don’t worry, okay?_

_Gee, that’s not exactly reassuring, Missouri._

A whiff of annoyance passed through Dean’s mind. _Don’t sass me, boy. This ain’t easy for any of us._

Dean relented at the chastisement. _Sorry. Can I see Sam now?_

_In you go, honey._

Dean opened the door and stepped in, and was immediately aware of why Missouri wanted to warn him. Sam looked dead. He was pale with a sheen of sweat, but that wasn’t what was bothering him. He had the distinct sensation that Sam was very much _not there_ and anxiety needled every nerve. “What’s wrong with him?”

Missouri shrugged helplessly as Cas approached carefully. He brought his hands close to Sam’s chest and sparks of energy lit up the air.

“Probably shouldn’t try again, Cas. Who knows where you’ll end up this time.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond then thought better of it, instead nodding in agreement and withdrawing his hands.

Dean sat down on the bed and took in the sight of his emaciated little brother. If anything, Sam seemed farther away now, less himself, and it made Dean’s heart want to spiral down into a drain and disappear forever. In his attempt to save Sam, had he damned him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Dean stood up and rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Alright, let’s get back to Bobby’s and see what we can dig up.”

His company looked at him with surprise. _No, you need to rest first. Castiel may have healed you, but I am not letting you out of this house until I say so!_

Knowing better than to argue with Missouri, Dean curtly nodded and responded with an only slightly tongue-in-cheek _Yes ma’am!_

* * *

Writhing darkness swept towards him. Sam tried to scramble away but his useless muscles refused to cooperate beyond dragging him a few feet. He could only watch with terrified apprehension as the ‘floor’ of his mind dropped out in huge sparkling chunks, the silent vacuum approaching at an accelerating rate. He tried to turn to find something to hold on to, but the void was closing in from all sides, pieces falling away and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He felt the piece beneath him crumble and disappear. Almost comically he grappled the empty air around him but found no traction. The drop was fast but he never hit the bottom. What if it _was_ an endless fall and it never stopped? He forced his limbs out in an attempt to halt his descent and was surprised when his hands and feet became mired in a thick, tar-like substance. He slowed until he came to a stop, spread-eagle and now trapped in this formless void. He felt it slide over his arms and legs, settling heavy weight on his torso and creeping towards his face. Pulling on all his extremities at once proved fruitless, so he instead focused on his right hand. The mire was getting closer and heavier, straining his gasping lungs. He yanked and tugged, channeling his dwindling strength into freeing _something_. But it was too little, too late, _the unofficial mantra of my life_ , he thought bitterly.

The moment he almost pulled his hand free, foreign fingers of tar forced themselves inside his mouth. The substance was rancid and reeked of decaying flesh. As it hit his tongue, violent bolts of pain erupted from his knees and he experienced a memory as though for the first time, when some hunters had taken sledgehammers to his knee caps. He tried swallowing the first drop of tortuous bile but he was rewarded by the introduction to a new memory of personal calamity where his demonic side was forcibly drowned in demon blood. Inadvertently, he took in another drop, and the feel of acid dripping into his eyes forced a scream out of him heaving chest. Memories started pouring in just as the vile sludge began invading his throat and filling his body. Memories he couldn’t recall making, things he didn’t know had happened to him. So many hands touching his body, pulling, claiming, taking, ripping. Innumerable trophies stolen from his faltering form. So many drugs pumped through his system he could’ve sworn his brain would melt out his ears. Venom from some supernatural creature that clogged his arteries so slowly he could feel his heart burst from the pressure. Suffering became an art and he was their canvas. Eventually they tired of his screams and pleas for mercy, so they would cut his vocal cords preemptively if they knew pain, and not pleasure, was the day’s main goal.

_Pleasure_. The word was ruined for him and his mind balked at even considering it. He had been... Had Lucifer hidden this from him? Is this what Lucifer meant when he said he wasn’t strong enough to survive what had happened to him? Because maybe the fallen angel was right. This was... The torrent of emotions that ravaged him as he experienced all that had happened to him when he’d been trapped in ice by Lucifer... It was enough to make him wish for non-existence all over again. The depravity of it all dimmed the radiance of his soul. Every cell of his body felt contaminated by perverted debauchery. The things he had done, the things he had been forced to do... It was all too much and he felt himself drowning, suffocating, in an endless riptide of lewd feelings and hateful voices.

Traitor, freak, loser, deceiver, monster, beast, unworthy, vermin, failure, abomination, plague, evil – he’d heard it all and more. Some part of him believed every last word spit at him in hate was earned and accurate. He was nothing – no, he was _worse than nothing_. He was not welcomed in this reality anymore, he was cut off, adrift from any connection to the world, doomed to drown eternally in his internal prison. He had built the bars one by one, though entirely by accident.

The tar reunited above his head and then he was somewhere else, able to move but unable to see. He immediately felt as though he were suffocating. Not in a hand-around-his-throat or a choking-on-food or a drowning way, just a persistent lack of oxygen that was driving rocks into his brain. A chill crept through him like a slow-moving cancer; he was aware of its spread but powerless to stop it. Lightning flashed around him and he could have sworn that thousands of gnarled hands were reaching towards him, ready to hurt him, to tear him apart, to caress him in a nauseating mockery of affection. Thunder roared through him like a breaking tidal wave and he felt the weakened threads of his soul shiver in terror.

Spectral faces with black eyes flickered in the lightning and gathered around him. Ornate bars suddenly emerged from the oblivion around him and moved to envelop him in a prison that was simultaneously endless and claustrophobic. Hissing voices whispered in a language he didn’t understand but made him tremble nonetheless. The more he tried to ignore them, the more the words took on physical form, a hundred thousand tiny cuts across his skin as they tore past. Tendrils of raw energy curled around the ancient panels surrounding him, warning against any foolhardy escape attempt.

_Ancient_. The word stuck in his flailing mind and he didn’t know how he understood their age. But he did, and the more he thought about it, he recognized that ancient was an understatement. The prison was made out of time itself, woven and collapsed in on itself to create a separate dimension. Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. This was Lucifer’s cage. This is where the Devil had spent untold millennia, alone and forsaken. And somehow, he was trapped there, too.

Instinctual, animalistic fear seized him before he could think through his situation rationally. His heart rate shot up and the _things_ outside started screeching and clamoring, their clawed hands trying to grab him. He scrabbled — when had he gotten on the ground? — for the relative safety of the center of the cell, away from what he guessed must be demons. He slapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, desperate to drown out the deranged howls and burning stares, but it only made him more acutely aware of how trapped he was. He was alive, yes, but this was so much worse than death.

* * *

Two weeks had gone by since they’d gotten back from Missouri’s. She’d loaded them up with all sorts of baked goods and frozen meals and insisted they keep her updated. Lindsey was disheartened by the lack of change in Sam, but still somehow hopeful. Her optimism amazed Dean but he didn’t share it. His frustration was only aggravated by his continuing ability to hear anything. They’d figured out a system of yes or no questions and when that didn’t suffice, using small dry erase boards to write things out. Dean knew it meant the end of his hunting career, but he wasn’t as devasted by that realization as he would have predicted. Though he would never admit it, he knew it was because he didn’t want to hunt with anyone besides Sam.

And Sam... Well, Sam was not getting better. He had stopped listening to commands after the ritual, so everything had to be done for him. He was basically in a coma. He and Lindsey developed a routine to help move his muscles to at least slow the loss, but Dean could tell his brother was wasting away, shriveling to almost nothing. It made him desperate in ways that were far too reminiscent of Cold Oak for his comfort.

* * *

Another week without any change had gone by. Dean sat staring at Sam’s unmoving form on the porch chair. His brother’s body was like a marionette doll: he could move and pose Sam however he wanted and it would remain in that arrangement. What little muscle mass Sam had retained from his months in captivity was quickly wasting away. Incoherent dread seized Dean’s heart whenever he considered that this may be how Sam spends the rest of his life.

_God, maybe Demon-Sam was right... Maybe I shouldn’t have brought Sam back to the surface..._ Dean thought to himself, though he hated himself for it. He hated himself even more for the thought that followed.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

Dean turned his head so he was looking out at the yard instead of directly at Sam or Bobby. “What if we tried giving him demon blood? See if we can get any type of response?”

Bobby closed the book he was reading abruptly and picked up the white board. ‘Dean, I know you want your brother back... I do, too. But have you lost your damn mind?!’

“It would just be an experiment, to see what happens...”

‘And if something happened, what would you do?’

Dean shrugged listlessly. “I dunno... I... I can’t stand watching him like this. It’s even worse than before!” He fought the clench of his throat that threatened to strangle him.

‘Is him being a demon really any better?’

Dean flashed a glance at Bobby but couldn’t hold his gaze. He sighed dejectedly. “Maybe?”

‘Goddammit, Dean! This is the sort of stupid shit that got us in this situation in the first place. You both being unable to live without each other.’ He had to pause and erase and write more. ‘Don’t do that to your brother. He wouldn’t want that. Stop thinking about yourself for ten fucking minutes and think this through.’ Having to write it out really took the sting out of yelling at someone. ‘You said he had way more power than he had any right to. And you wanna go poke that bear?’

Dean had been ready to fight Bobby’s outburst but became more cowed as Bobby continued. “Y-you’re right... I just...” He looked over to Sam, completely unchanged from when he had placed his body there twenty minutes ago. “I can’t deal with this anymore,” Dean whispered and stormed inside, slamming the frail screen door with all his might.

Bobby let his head fall into his hands. “You and me both, son,” he murmured to no one.

* * *

There must have been a crack, somewhere, because things were crawling on him, things that rejoiced in tearing out little chunks of his flesh and making him bleed. But maybe there could be a way out? By the time he gathered the courage and stamina to move, he was wading hip-deep through the writhing creatures, a million different cruel abominations with too many teeth, mouths, and legs, all swarming to taste him. As he got closer to the source, he could feel a draft... Not of wind, or cold, but of existence itself. He dug through the nightmarish vermin and was left with skeletal hands once he reached his goal: a hairline crack in the corner, dark opalescence seeping out. He brought his bony finger near and was immediately rebuffed. He tried again, sticking his whole hand in forcefully and was thrown across the cage. Again and again, he tried, working his body down to oozing, festering bones. It almost felt like reality was mocking him, forcing him to give his all and get nothing in return, while inconsequential demonic creatures passed through with no hesitation.

_Demonic_. The word resonated in his head, sounding both like salvation and damnation. If he wanted to escape, he’d have to let the demonic side of him take control. _If_ that was even possible... He didn’t have demon blood... But he did have all of these vile creatures...

Shame inundated him and threatened to sweep away any remaining willpower. How could he ever look at himself again if he went through with this? Consuming Hell’s living trash in a suicidal attempt for freedom that would require willingly letting his demonic powers rule over him? He staggered back, paralyzed by the decision, his mind warring between dying with dignity or trying with dishonor. He fell to his knees, the squeals of crushed monsters mirroring the lament from his soul. He couldn’t, he couldn’t give in and surrender to it now, after all this. He let himself fall backward and the _things_ poured over him, biting, ripping, and tearing. This is how it would end. He could deal with that. Because he couldn’t go along with allowing himself to be a demon.

Could he?

Dean’s begging from earlier suddenly blared in his mind. _“I miss you, I want you back, no matter how messed up everything is. I’m here now and I will do anything, anything to make this right! Please, Sammy, just come back to me.”_

The unrepentant need in Dean’s voice shattered any hopes Sam had of just surrendering himself to his current fate. Dean wasn’t letting go and Sam would be a coward if he did. If Dean really meant it, he’d accept Sam back in whatever state he returned. They’d figure it out later. They always did. And they could this time, as long as Sam did what was needed. He had to. For Dean.

He flexed his withered fingers and took fistfuls of squirming Hell beasts and shoved them into his mouth. The bitter, stinging taste that made him retch and the painful stabs to his tongue and cheeks that almost prevented him from chewing were quickly overcome by that familiar, magnificent rush of power. He shoveled in more and more, the exhilaration all-consuming. The profane energy bounded through his nerves like loose electricity and he practically _roared_ with ecstasy as he felt his eyes go black. He dove headfirst toward the crack in the cage and was gratified to find his hypothesis to be correct: he was out.

But the grasping tar of his memories embraced him and he knew he still had the fight of his lifetime ahead of him. He’d have to make it through all the things he’d been hiding from, himself included, for even _a chance_ of making it out alive. He owed Dean his best effort.

He flung his arms out the best he could and began to swim upwards with all his strength. He tried holding his breath for as long as he could but it was futile, and he knew it. The moment the noxious slime touched his tongue, experiences burst forth like a geyser. So much pain, rage, misery, but dominant above them all was humiliation. There was no aspect of his mind, body, or soul that had remained unsullied. He paused in his ascent, convinced no one would want him after everything he’d been through. Ceasing to exist was far more desirable than chasing some shred of affection from strangers on a street corner—

_No!_ his heart screamed. _Dean said he would love you no matter what._

_But what if he doesn’t? What if he thinks I’m revolting, or pathetic, or useless, or—_

_Then you deal with it then. But at least find out first. Don’t want to disappoint him again, do you?_

That fucking did it. Despite months of misery seeping into his veins, he forced himself upward, absolutely hellbent on never disappointing Dean again.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes to a completely different world of sensations and he struggled to make sense of them. Nothing was trying to hurt him, nothing seemed to be chasing him, he was... What was the word... _comfortable_. Once he mustered the courage to open his eyes, he found himself wrapped in blankets in a darkened but familiar room. He tried to fling the heavy fabric from his body, the compressing sensation too upsetting given his recent struggles, until he recognized his surroundings. He was at Bobby’s. The realization filled his heart with an alien emotion: joy. Someone still cared about him enough to bring him back here. And Bobby hadn’t just thrown him out! He laid curled in the warm haven for a few moments, relishing the feel of a soft bed and clean sheets. He also realized _he_ was clean, a sensation he couldn’t remember clearly without haunting associations. He quickly pushed the blankets away and turned on a lamp near the bed. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the IV lines snaking under his sleeve and felt the familiar discomfort of a catheter. He froze in fear. Was he still somehow with, with... _them_? He couldn’t even think their names. Had they come to Bobby’s and killed –

_No!_ Sam dismissed the thought. He couldn’t bear it. No, Bobby was fine. It was the only thing that made sense.

He pulled the various contraptions out of his flesh and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He focused his limited energy down through his feet and forced his body to standing. His muscles were pathetically weak and he fell back towards the bed. His body wanted to give up but his incessant need to know he was safe drove him upwards again. He grabbed the IV pole and pulled it along as a crutch. As he moved towards the door, he caught sight of a random array of items on top of the dresser. His Taurus, Dad’s journal, Dean’s cassette tapes. _Dean_. Could he really be here? There were pictures Sam didn’t even know existed, pictures of himself and Dean. Hope surged in him as he imagined Dean and tears threatened his composure.

His eyes drifted up in his attempt to stall the deluge and he saw himself in the mirror, prompting a violent recoil.

Even in the low light, he could see that he looked like a corpse. The faintest of smiles flittered across his dry lips as an odd quote came to mind: ‘I am become Death,’ Robert Oppenheimer had thought upon witnessing the first detonation of an atomic bomb. Sam felt he had a bigger claim on the verse from the Bhagavad-Gita than the nuclear physicist; Oppenheimer may have led to the deaths of more people, but he had died more than anyone.

He took a few shaky steps forward to study himself more closely. His body looked so frail, his skin almost grayish. Despite the loose-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants, he could feel the taught scars of the warding sigils pulling at him. He couldn’t recall the last time he had looked someone in the eye, so he decided to start with himself. The gaze that met his held a terrible surprise. On a deeply-buried instinct, he fled the room in search of his brother.

* * *

Dean was trying to focus on a book in front of him but concentration had eluded him for several weeks. Every time he tried to research and scour the world for something that might help Sam, he’d been bombarded by vicious memories or dark imaginings of Sam’s suffering. Being locked in silence in his own head made everything that much worse and he yearned for the comforting distraction of rock and roll. Maybe even feeling the rhythm would help? He should put on something with heavy bass...

He lifted his gaze to look for Bobby’s stereo and that’s when he encountered the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Not some gorgeous woman inviting him into her bed, not the endless highway laid out before him snaking through Monument Valley, not the glittering splash of the Milky Way lighting up the night sky. All these things had their proper place in Dean’s heart, but nothing would ever top the sight of his little brother standing in the shadowed doorway, eyes moist with a thousand unshed emotions, staring straight at him, actually _seeing him_.

Dean stood so suddenly he knocked over the small table in front of him. His eyes darted away from Sam to watch his glass fall to the floor. He imagined the sound it would make as it shattered and was surprised to actually hear it. He looked back to Sam, who had not moved a muscle.

Sam seemed to be hanging back and as much as Dean wanted to wrap the kid in a tight bear hug and never let go, he knew he needed to let Sam do this at his own pace. The last thing he wanted to do was scare him back inside his head.

Sam took a step forward and Dean instantly realized why Sam was being so shy. Underneath the sheen of tears, there was something distinctly different about Sam’s eyes. Fear inundated his heart when he saw the bright red streaks that pierced the hazel field of Sam’s left eye, glowing ever so faintly in the darkness, red that looked far too familiar given recent events, a red that looked like—Dean stepped back, terrified that Lucifer might be standing before him.

His gaze swept the distance between them as he reached behind him and pulled out his gun. He lifted his arm to aim it at his brother as he quietly asked “Sammy?” and was again startled by hearing the actual sound. A sudden feeling of warmth enveloped him along with a pervasive sense of deep affection. It distracted him and he shifted his attention back to Sam. 

He didn’t miss the small smile that grew on Sam’s face as Dean’s very soul rejoiced at the expression of one sound, a word he thought he might never hear said again in such a tender, trusting, loving manner that no angel could replicate, a word that now had so much more meaning.

‘ _Dean?_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel is already underway! It is titled 'Depending on One Knot for Five Loose Ends'.
> 
> Comments/reviews/kudos are love!


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